
























































COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 


















































i 9 4 





































h 






























TLhc BngUsb Commie Ibumalne 


THE HISTORY OF THE ADVENTURES OF 

JOSEPH ANDREWS 

AND H)S FRIEND MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS 


BY 


HENRY FIELDING 



NEW YORK 

Cbe Century Co. 

1902 












THE LJ SR Aft V OF 
CONGRESS, 

TWf) Coma 1 RECBWEO 

ore, 3 T90? 

C«TevCTioMT pntpv 
CLASS ft-XX0 No. 

conr R. 


Copyright, 1902, by 
The Century Co. 


Published November , 7902 . 









PUBLISHERS’ NOTE 


Henry Fielding, by common consent of the critics the^greatest 
of English novelists, was born near Glastonbury in Somerset¬ 
shire in 1707 and died at Lisbon, whither he had gone for his 
health, in 1754. The greater part of his life was spent in Lon¬ 
don. At the outset of his career there he was obliged, as he 
said, to choose between the work of a hackney coachman and 
that of a hackney writer, and selecting the latter applied himself 
to the composing of plays. Meeting with but indifferent success 
in this occupation, he turned to the law, was admitted to the 
bar in 1740, and later became a justice of the peace and chair¬ 
man of quarter sessions. 

His first novel, “Joseph Andrews” (published in 1742), was 
suggested by, and is in part a parody of, Richardson’s 11 Pa¬ 
mela” (which is included in this “ Comedie Humaine”). The 
superfine sentiment and priggishness of that famous romance 
were distasteful to Fielding’s vigorous and eminently masculine 
mind, and he undertook to make the career of the virtuous 
Pamela ridiculous by means of the parallel career of her virtuous 
brother Joseph. The burlesque was not, however, carried far, 
for his characters soon demanded, and received, independent 
treatment—the result being at once a masterpiece of fiction, one 
of the most perfect of prose comedies, and a picture of real life 
which has seldom been surpassed. It is not so much a parody 
on the work of Richardson as its complement. The sentimental 
printer endeavored to show, from the point of view of a very 
commonplace moral ideal, how men and, especially, women 
ought to conduct themselves; the virile playwright actually 
showed how the real men and women of his time did conduct 
themselves. There is in Fielding’s picture of the life of his 
country and time too much of frank vulgarity-^ too much cer¬ 
tainly for modern taste; but apart from this, it is worthy to be 
placed among the greatest masterpieces of realistic fiction. 
















































r 








































































. 




















































































9 





























CONTENTS 


Preface 


XV 


BOOK I. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

i Of writing Lives in general, and particularly 
of Pamela; with a word by the bye of Colley 
Cibber and others . 3 

11 Of Mr Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, 

EDUCATION, AND GREAT ENDOWMENTS; WITH A 
WORD OR TWO CONCERNING ANCESTORS .... 5 

f 

hi Of Mr Abraham Adams the curate, Mrs Slip¬ 
slop THE CHAMBERMAID, AND OTHERS .... 7 

iv What happened after their journey to London ii 

v The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the 

AFFECTIONATE AND MOURNFUL BEHAVIOUR OF HIS 
WIDOW, AND THE GREAT PURITY OF JOSEPH 

Andrews.13 

vi How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister < 
Pamela.15 

vii Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the 

LADY AND HER MAID; AND A PANEGYRIC, OR 
RATHER SATIRE, ON THE PASSION OF LOVE, IN THE 
SUBLIME STYLE.19 

VIII In which, after some very fine writing, the 

HISTORY GOES ON, AND RELATES THE INTERVIEW 
BETWEEN THE LADY AND JOSEPH; WHERE THE 
LATTER HATH SET AN EXAMPLE WHICH WE DE¬ 
SPAIR OF SEEING FOLLOWED BY HIS SEX IN THIS 

VICIOUS AGE.22 

vii 








CONTENTS 


PAGE 


CHAPTER 

ix What passed between the lady and Mrs Slip¬ 

slop; IN WHICH WE PROPHESY THERE ARE SOME 
STROKES WHICH EVERY ONE WILL NOT TRULY COM¬ 
PREHEND AT THE FIRST READING.26 

x Joseph writes another letter: his transactions 

with Mr Peter Pounce, etc., with his depart¬ 
ure from Lady Booby.30 

xi Of several new matters not expected ... 32 

xii Containing many surprizing adventures which 

Joseph Andrews met with on the road, scarce 

CREDIBLE TO THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER TRAVELLED 
IN A STAGE-COACH. 35 

xiii What happened to Joseph during his sickness 

AT THE INN, WITH THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE BE¬ 
TWEEN him and Mr Barnabas, the parson of 


THE PARISH.41 

xiv Being very full of adventures which succeeded 

EACH OTHER AT THE INN. 44 


xv Showing how Mrs Tow-wouse was a little 

mollified; and how officious Mr Barnabas 

AND THE SURGEON WERE TO PROSECUTE THE THIEF: 
WITH A DISSERTATION ACCOUNTING FOR THEIR 
ZEAL, AND THAT OF MANY OTHER PERSONS NOT 
MENTIONED IN THIS HISTORY.49 

xvi The escape of the thief. Mr Adams’s dis¬ 

appointment. The arrival of two very ex¬ 
traordinary PERSONAGES, AND THE INTRODUC¬ 
TION of Parson Adams to Parson Barnabas . 53 

XVII A PLEASANT DISCOURSE BETWEEN THE TWO PARSONS 
AND THE BOOKSELLER, WHICH WAS BROKE OFF BY 
AN UNLUCKY ACCIDENT HAPPENING IN THE INN, 
WHICH PRODUCED A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MRS TOW- 
WOUSE AND HER MAID OF NO GENTLE KIND . . 6l 

xviii The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an 

ACCOUNT OF WHAT OCCASIONED THE VIOLENT 

SCENE IN THE PRECEDING CHAPTER.66 

viii 








CONTENTS 


BOOK II. 

CHAPTER 

I Of divisions in authors. 

II A SURPRIZING INSTANCE OF Mr ADAMS’S SHORT MEM¬ 

ORY, WITH THE UNFORTUNATE CONSEQUENCES WHICH 
IT BROUGHT ON JOSEPH. 

hi The opinion of two lawyers concerning the 

SAME GENTLEMAN, WITH Mr ADAMS’S INQUIRY INTO 
THE RELIGION OF HIS HOST. 

iv The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate 

JILT. 

V A DREADFUL QUARREL WHICH HAPPENED AT THE INN 
WHERE THE COMPANY DINED, WITH ITS BLOODY 
CONSEQUENCES TO MR ADAMS. 

vi Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt. 

VII A VERY SHORT CHAPTER, IN WHICH PARSON ADAMS 
WENT A GREAT WAY. 

VIII A NOTABLE DISSERTATION BY Mr ABRAHAM ADAMS; 

WHEREIN THAT GENTLEMAN APPEARS IN A POLITI¬ 
CAL LIGHT. 

IX In which the gentleman descants on bravery 

AND HEROIC VIRTUE, TILL AN UNLUCKY ACCIDENT 
PUTS AN END TO THE DISCOURSE. 

x Giving an account of the strange catastrophe 

OF THE PRECEDING ADVENTURE, WHICH DREW POOR 

Adams into fresh calamities; and who the 

WOMAN WAS WHO OWED THE PRESERVATION OF HER 
CHASTITY TO HIS VICTORIOUS ARM. 

xi What happened to them while before the jus¬ 
tice. A CHAPTER VERY FULL OF LEARNING . . . 

XII A VERY DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE, AS WELL TO THE 
PERSONS CONCERNED AS TO THE GOOD-NATURED 
READER . 

XIII A DISSERTATION CONCERNING HIGH PEOPLE AND LOW 

people, with Mrs Slipslop’s departure in no 

ix 




$ 


PAGE 

70 

72 

77 

83 

98 

106 

110 

112 

n5 

120 

125 

131 












CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

VERY GOOD TEMPER OF MIND, AND THE EVIL PLIGHT 
IN WHICH SHE LEFT ADAMS AND HIS COMPANY . . 135 

xiv An interview between Parson Adams and Parson 

Trulliber.141 

xv An adventure the consequence of a new instance 

which Parson Adams gave of his forgetfulness. 147 

XVI A VERY CURIOUS ADVENTURE, IN WHICH Mr ADAMS 
GAVE A MUCH GREATER INSTANCE OF THE HONEST 
SIMPLICITY OF HIS HEART, THAN OF HIS EXPERI¬ 
ENCE IN THE WAYS OF THIS WORLD.150 

XVII A DIALOGUE BETWEEN Mr ABRAHAM ADAMS AND HIS 
HOST, WHICH, BY THE DISAGREEMENT IN THEIR 
OPINIONS, SEEMED TO THREATEN AN UNLUCKY CATAS¬ 
TROPHE, HAD IT NOT BEEN TIMELY PREVENTED BY 
THE RETURN OF THE LOVERS. 1 5 7 


BOOK III. 

I Matter prefatory in praise of biography . . . 164 

II A NIGHT-SCENE, WHEREIN SEVERAL WONDERFUL AD¬ 

VENTURES befel Adams and his fellow-trav¬ 
ellers .169 

III In which the gentleman relates the history of 

HIS LIFE.178 

IV A DESCRIPTION OF Mr WILSON’S WAY OF LIVING. 

The tragical adventures of the dog, and 

' OTHER GRAVE MATTERS.201 

V A DISPUTATION ON SCHOOLS HELD ON THE ROAD BY 

Mr Abraham Adams and Joseph; and a dis¬ 
covery NOT UNWELCOME TO THEM BOTH ..... 205 

vi Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the 

HUNTING ADVENTURE, AND PARSON ADAMS’S MIRAC¬ 
ULOUS ESCAPE.209 

VII A SCENE OF ROASTING, VERY NICELY ADAPTED TO THE 

PRESENT TASTE AND TIMES. 2 l 8 


X 









CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

viii Which some readers will think too short and 

OTHERS TOO LONG .226 

ix Containing as surprizing and bloody adventures 

AS CAN BE FOUND IN THIS OR PERHAPS ANY OTHER 
AUTHENTIC HISTORY.230 

X A DISCOURSE BETWEEN THE POET AND THE PLAYER; 

OF NO OTHER USE IN THIS HISTORY BUT TO DIVERT 
THE READER.234 

xi Containing the exhortations of Parson Adams 

TO HIS FRIEND IN AFFLICTION; CALCULATED FOR 
THE INSTRUCTION AND IMPROVEMENT OF THE 
READER.238 

xii More adventures, which we hope will as much 

PLEASE AS SURPRIZE THE READER.241 

XIII A CURIOUS DIALOGUE WHICH PASSED BETWEEN Mr 

Abraham Adams and Mr Peter Pounce, better 

WORTH READING THAN ALL THE WORKS OF COLLEY 

Cibber and many others.248 

BOOK IV. 

1 The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at 

Booby-hall .251 

II A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MR ABRAHAM ADAMS AND 

Lady Booby.255 

hi What passed between the lady and Lawyer Scout 258 

IV A SHORT CHAPTER, BUT VERY FULL OF MATTER; PAR¬ 
TICULARLY THE ARRIVAL OF Mr BOOBY AND HIS 
LADY. 2^1 

v Containing justice business; curious precedents 

OF DEPOSITIONS, AND OTHER MATTERS NECESSARY 
TO BE PERUSED BY ALL JUSTICES OF THE PEACE AND 
THEIR CLERKS. 2 ^2 

VI Of which you are desired to read no more than 

268 


YOU LIKE 


XI 














CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

vii Philosophical reflections, the like not to be 

FOUND IN ANY LIGHT FRENCH ROMANCE. MR 

Booby’s grave advice to Joseph, and Fanny’s 

ENCOUNTER WITH A BEAU. 

VIII A DISCOURSE WHICH HAPPENED BETWEEN MR ADAMS, 

Mrs Adams, Joseph, and Fanny; with some be¬ 
haviour of Mr Adams which will be called 

BY SOME FEW READERS VERY LOW, ABSURD, AND 
UNNATURAL . 

IX A VISIT WHICH THE POLITE LADY BOOBY AND HER 
POLITE FRIEND PAID TO THE PARSON. 

x The history of two friends, which may afford 

AN USEFUL LESSON TO ALL THOSE PERSONS WHO 
HAPPEN TO TAKE UP THEIR RESIDENCE IN MARRIED 
FAMILIES. 

XI In WHICH THE HISTORY IS CONTINUED. 

xii Where the good-natured reader will see some¬ 
thing WHICH WILL GIVE HIM NO GREAT PLEASURE 

xiii The history, returning to the Lady Booby, gives 

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE TERRIBLE CONFLICT IN HER 
BREAST BETWEEN LOVE AND PRIDE; WITH WHAT 
HAPPENED ON THE PRESENT DISCOVERY .... 

xiv Containing several curious night-adventures, 

in which Mr Adams fell into many hair¬ 
breadth ’scapes, partly owing to his goodness, 

AND PARTLY TO HIS INADVERTENCY. 

xv The arrival of Gaffar and Gammar Andrews, 

/WITH ANOTHER PERSON NOT MUCH EXPECTED; AND 
A PERFECT SOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES RAISED 
BY THE PEDLAR. 

xvi Being the last. In which this true history is 

BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION. 


PAGE 

274 

28l 

287 

290 

296 

299 

301 

3°6 

311 
315 . 








LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


After the drawings by W. Small 


“The WHOLE TOWN HATH KNOWN IT THIS HALF YEAR” Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

“Taking her in his arms, he shut her out of the 

room”.68 




“Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told 

HIM HE DESERVED SCOURGING FOR HIS PRONUNCIATION” 126 


“The hare was no sooner on shore than it seated 

ITSELF ON ITS HINDER LEGS”.212 


“Joseph threw his head so dexterously into the 

STOMACH OF THE RAVISHER, THAT HE FELL” .... 280 









THE HISTORY OF THE ADVENTURES OF 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

AND HIS FRIEND MR ABRAHAM ADAMS 


PREFACE 

As it is possible the mere English reader may have a differ¬ 
ent idea of romance with the author of these little volumes, 
and may consequently expect a kind of entertainment not to 
be found, nor which was even intended, in the following 
pages; it may not be improper to premise a few words con¬ 
cerning this kind of writing, which I do not remember to 
have seen hitherto attempted in our language. 

The Epic, as well as the Drama, is divided into tragedy and 
comedy. Homer, who was the father of this species of poetry, 
gave us a pattern of both these, though that of the latter kind 
is entirely lost; which Aristotle tells us, bore the same relation 
to comedy which his Iliad bears to tragedy. And perhaps, 
that we have no more instances of it among the writers of 
antiquity, is owing to the loss of this great pattern, which, 
had it survived, would have found its imitators equally with 
the other poems of this great original. 

And farther, as this poetry may be tragic or comic, I will 
not scruple to say it may be likewise either in verse or prose: 
for though it wants one particular, which the critic enumer¬ 
ates in the constituent parts of an epic poem, namely metre; 


xv 



PREFACE 


yet, when any kind of writing contains all its other parts, 
such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, and diction, and 
is deficient in metre only; it seems, I think, reasonable to 
refer it to the epic; at least, as no critic hath thought proper 
to range it under any other head, or to assign it a particular 
name to itself. 

Thus the Telemachus of the archbishop of Cambray ap¬ 
pears to me of the epic kind, as well as the Odyssey of Ho¬ 
mer ; indeed, it is much fairer and more reasonable to give it 
a name common with that species from which it differs only 
in a single instance, than to confound it with those which it 
resembles in no other. Such as those voluminous works, 
commonly called romances, namely, Clelia, Cleopatra, Astrsea, 
Cassandra, the Grand Cyrus, and innumerable others, which 
contain, as I apprehend, very little instruction or entertain¬ 
ment. 

Now, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in prose; dif¬ 
fering from comedy, as the serious epic from tragedy: its 
action being more extended and comprehensive; containing 
a much larger circle of incidents, and introducing a greater 
variety of characters. It differs from the serious romance in 
its fable and action, in this; that as in the one these are grave 
and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridiculous: it 
differs in its characters by introducing persons of inferior 
rank, and consequently, of inferior manners, whereas the 
grave romance sets the highest before us: lastly, in its senti¬ 
ments and diction; by preserving the ludicrous instead of 
the sublime. In the diction, I think, burlesque itself may be 
sometimes admitted; of which many instances will occur in 
this work, as in the description of the battles, and some other * 
places, not necessary to be pointed out to the classical reader, 
for whose entertainment those parodies or burlesque imita¬ 
tions are chiefly calculated. 


xvi 


PREFACE 


But, though we have sometimes admitted this in our dic¬ 
tion, we have carefully excluded it from our sentiments and 
characters; for there it is never properly introduced, unless 
in writings of the burlesque kind, which this is not intended 
to be. Indeed, no two species of writing can differ more 
widely than the comic and the burlesque; for as the latter 
is ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, 
and where our delight, if we examine it, arises from the sur¬ 
prising absurdity, as in appropriating the manners of the 
highest to the lowest, or e converso; so in the former we 
should ever confine ourselves strictly to nature, from the 
just imitation of which will flow all the pleasure we can this 
way convey to a sensible reader. And perhaps there is one 
reason why a comic writer should of all others be the least 
excused for deviating from nature, since it may not be always 
so easy for a serious poet to meet with the great and the ad¬ 
mirable; but life everywhere furnishes an accurate observer 
with the ridiculous. 

I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, because I 
have often heard that name given to performances which 
have been truly of the comic kind, from the author’s having 
sometimes admitted it in his diction only; which, as it is the 
dress of poetry, doth, like the dress of men, establish char¬ 
acters (the one of the whole poem, and the other of the whole 
man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater excel¬ 
lences : but surely a certain drollery in style, where charac¬ 
ters and sentiments are perfectly natural, no more constitutes 
the burlesque, than an empty pomp and dignity of words, 
where every thing else is mean and low, can entitle any per¬ 
formance to the appellation of the true sublime. 

And I apprehend my lord Shaftesbury’s opinion of mere 
burlesque agrees with mine, when he asserts there is no such 
thing to be found in the writings of the ancients. But per- 

xvii 


PREFACE 


haps I have less abhorrence than he professes for it; and 
that, not because I have had some little success on the stage 
this way, but rather as it contributes more to exquisite mirth 
and laughter than any other; and these are probably more 
wholesome physic for the mind, and conduce better to purge 
away spleen, melancholy, and ill affections, than is generally 
imagined. Nay, I will appeal to common observation, whe¬ 
ther the same companies are not found more full of good- 
humour and benevolence, after they have been sweetened for 
two or three hours with entertainments of this kind, than 
when soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture. 

But to illustrate all this by another science, in which, per¬ 
haps, we shall see the distinction more clearly and plainly, 
let us examine the works of a comic history painter, with 
those performances which the Italians call caricatura, where 
we shall find the true excellence of the former to consist in 
the exactest copying of nature; insomuch that a judicious 
eye instantly rejects anything outre , any liberty which the 
painter hath taken with the features of that alma mater; 
whereas in the caricatura we allow all licence,—its aim is to 
exhibit monsters, not men; and all distortions and exaggera¬ 
tions whatever are within its proper province. 

Now, what caricatura is in painting, burlesque is in writ¬ 
ing; and in the same manner the comic writer and painter 
correlate to each other. And here I shall observe, that, as in 
the former the painter seems to have the advantage; so it is 
in the latter infinitely on the side of the writer; for the mon¬ 
strous is much easier to paint than describe, and the ridicu¬ 
lous to describe than paint. 

And though perhaps this latter species doth not in either 
science so strongly affect and agitate the muscles as the other; 
yet it will be owned, I believe, that a more rational and use¬ 
ful pleasure arises to us from it. He who should call the 

xviii 


PREFACE 


ingenious Hogarth a burlesque painter, would, in my opinion, 
do him very little honour; for sure it is much easier, much 
less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with a nose, 
or any other feature, of a preposterous size, or to expose him 
in some absurd or monstrous attitude, than to express the 
affections of men on canvas. It hath been thought a vast 
commendation of a painter to say his figures seem to breathe; 
but surely it is a much greater and nobler applause, that they 
appear to think. 

But to return. The ridiculous only, as I have before said, 
falls within my province in the present work. Nor will 
some explanation of this word be thought impertinent by the 
reader, if he considers how wonderfully it hath been mis¬ 
taken, even by writers who have professed it: for to what but 
such a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to ridicule 
the blackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, the most dread¬ 
ful calamities? What could exceed the absurdity of an au¬ 
thor, who should write the comedy of Nero, with the merry 
incident of ripping up his mother’s belly ? or what would give 
a greater shock to humanity than an attempt to expose the 
miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule? And yet the 
reader will not want much learning to suggest such instances 
to himself. 

Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, who is so 
fond and free of definitions, hath not thought proper to define 
the ridiculous. Indeed, where he tells us it is proper to 
comedy, he hath remarked that villany is not its object: but 
he hath not, as I remember, positively asserted what is. Nor 
doth the Abbe Bellegarde, who hath written a treatise on this 
subject, though he shows us many species of it, once trace it 
to its fountain. 

The only source of the true ridiculous (as it appears to 
me) is affectation. But though it arises from one spring only, 

xix 


PREFACE 


when we consider the infinite streams into which this one 
branches, we shall presently cease to admire at the copious 
field it affords to an observer. Now, affectation proceeds 
from one of these two causes, vanity or hypocrisy: for as van¬ 
ity puts us on affecting false characters, in order to purchase 
applause; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour to avoid cen¬ 
sure, by concealing our vices under an appearance of their 
opposite virtues. And though these two causes are often con¬ 
founded (for there is some difficulty in distinguishing them), 
yet, as they proceed from very different motives, so they are 
as clearly distinct in their operations: for indeed, the affecta¬ 
tion which arises from vanity is nearer to truth than the other, 
as it hath not that violent repugnancy of nature to struggle 
with, which that of the hypocrite hath. It may be likewise 
noted, that affectation doth not imply an absolute negation of 
those qualities which are affected; and, therefore, though, 
when it proceeds from hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to deceit; 
yet when it comes from vanity only, it partakes of the nature 
of ostentation: for instance, the affectation of liberality in a 
vain man differs visibly from the same affectation in the ava¬ 
ricious ; for though the vain man is not what he would appear, 
or hath not the virtue he affects, to the degree he would be 
thought to have it; yet it sits less awkwardly on him than on 
the avaricious man, who is the very reverse of what he would 
seem to be. 

From the discovery of this affectation arises the ridiculous, 
which always strikes the reader with surprize and pleasure; 
and that in a higher and stronger degree when the affectation 
arises from hypocrisy, than when from vanity; for to discover 
any one to be the exact reverse of what he affects, is more 
surprizing, and consequently more ridiculous, than to find 
him a little deficient in the quality he desires the reputation 
of. I might observe that our Ben Jonson, who of all men 


xx 


PREFACE 


understood the ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the hypo¬ 
critical affectation. 

Now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities 
of life, or the imperfections of nature, may become the objects 
of ridicule. Surely he hath a very ill-framed mind who can 
look on ugliness, infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in them¬ 
selves : nor do I believe any man living, who meets a dirty 
fellow riding through the streets in a cart, is struck with an 
idea of the ridiculous from it; but if he should see the same 
figure descend from his coach and six, or bolt from his chair 
with his hat under his arm, he would then begin to laugh, 
and with justice. In the same manner, were we to enter a 
poor house and behold a wretched family shivering with cold 
and languishing with hunger, it would not incline us to 
laughter (at least we must have very diabolical natures if it 
would) ; but should we discover there a grate, instead of 
coals, adorned with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on 
the sideboard, or any other affectation of riches and finery, 
either on their persons or in their furniture, we might then 
indeed be excused for ridiculing so fantastical an appearance. 
Much less are natural imperfections the object of derision; 
but when ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, or lameness 
endeavours to display agility, it is then that these unfortunate 
circumstances, which at first moved our compassion, tend only 
to raise our mirth. 

The poet carries this very far:— 

None are for being what they are in fault, 

But for not being what they would be thought. 

Where if the metre would suffer the word ridiculous to close 
the first line, the thought would be rather more proper. 
Great vices are the proper objects of our detestation, smaller 
faults, of our pity; but affectation appears to me the only true 
source of the ridiculous. 


xxi 


PREFACE 


But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have against 
my own rules introduced vices, and of a very black kind, into 
this work. To which I shall answer: first, that it is very 
difficult to pursue a series of human actions, and keep clear 
from them. Secondly, that the vices to be found here, are 
rather the accidental consequences of some human frailty or 
foible, than causes habitually existing in the mind. Thirdly, 
that they are never set forth as the objects of ridicule, but 
detestation. Fourthly, that they are never the principal 
figure at that time on the scene: and, lastly, they never pro¬ 
duce the intended evil. 

Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from the pro¬ 
ductions of romance writers on the one hand and burlesque 
writers on the other, and given some few very short hints (for 
I intended no more) of this species of writing, which I have 
affirmed to be hitherto unattempted in our language; I shall 
leave to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to my 
observations, and will detain him no longer than with a word 
concerning the characters in this work. 

And here I solemnly protest I have no intention to vilify 
or asperse any one; for though everything is copied from the 
book of nature, and scarce a character or action produced 
which I have not taken from my own observations and ex¬ 
perience ; yet I have used the utmost care to obscure the per¬ 
sons by such different circumstances, degrees, and colours, 
that it will be impossible to guess at them with any degree of 
certainty; and if it ever happens otherwise, it is only where 
the failure characterized is so minute, that it is a foible only 
which the party himself may laugh at as well as any other. 

As to the character of Adams, as it is the most glaring in 
the whole, so I conceive it is not to be found in any book now 
extant. It is designed a character of perfect simplicity; and 
as the goodness of his heart will recommend him to the good- 

xxii 



PREFACE 


natured, so I hope it will excuse me to the gentlemen of his 
cloth; for whom, while they are worthy of their sacred order, 
no man can possibly have a greater respect. They will there¬ 
fore excuse me, notwithstanding the low adventures in which 
he is engaged, that I have made him a clergyman; since no 
other office could have given him so many opportunities of 
displaying his worthy inclinations. 


xxm 


( / I 


THE ADVENTURES OF 
JOSEPH ANDREWS 



< 







THE ADVENTURES OF 
JOSEPH ANDREWS. 


BOOK I. 


CHAPTER I. 

OF WRITING LIVES IN GENERAL, AND PARTICULARLY OF PA¬ 
MELA; WITH A WORD BY THE BYE OF COLLEY CIBBER AND 
OTHERS. 

I T is a trite but true observation, that examples work more 
forcibly on the mind than precepts: and if this be just 
in what is odious and blameable, it is more strongly so in what 
is amiable and praiseworthy. Here emulation most effectually 
operates upon us, and inspires our imitation in an irresistible 
manner. A good man therefore is a standing lesson to all 
his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow circle 
than a good book. 

But as it often happens that the best men are but little 
known, and consequently cannot extend the usefulness of 
their examples a great way; the writer may be called in aid 
to spread their history farther, and to present the amiable 
pictures to those who have not the happiness of knowing the 
originals; and so, by communicating such valuable patterns 
to the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive service to 
mankind than the person whose life originally afforded the 
pattern. 

In this light I have always regarded those biographers 
who have recorded the actions of great and worthy persons 
of both sexes. Not to mention those ancient writers which 
of late days are little read, being written in obsolete, and as 
they are generally thought, unintelligible languages, such as 

3 




THE ADVENTURES OF 


Plutarch, Nepos, and others which I heard of in my youth; 
our own language affords many of excellent use and instruc¬ 
tion, finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, 
and very easy to be comprehended by persons of moderate 
capacity. Such as the history of John the Great, who, by 
his brave and heroic actions against men of large and athletic 
bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the Giant-killer; 
that of an earl of Warwick, whose Christian name was Guy; 
the lives of Argalus and Parthenia; and above all, the his¬ 
tory of those seven worthy personages, the Champions of 
Christendom. In all these delight is mixed with instruction, 
and the reader is almost as much improved as entertained. 

But I pass by these and many others to mention two books 
lately published, which represent an admirable pattern of the 
amiable in either sex. The former of these, which deals in 
male virtue, was written by the great person himself, who 
lived the life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to 
have lived such a life only in order to write it. The other 
is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his lights, 
as the common method is, from authentic papers and records. 
The reader, I believe, already conjectures, I mean the lives 
of Mr Colley Cibber and of Mrs Pamela Andrews. How 
artfully doth the former, by insinuating that he escaped being 
promoted to the highest stations in Church and State, teach 
us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how strongly doth he 
inculcate an absolute submission to our superiors! Lastly, 
how completely doth he arm us against so uneasy, so wretched 
a passion as the fear of shame! how clearly doth he expose 
the emptiness and vanity of that phantom, reputation! 

What the female readers are taught by the memoirs of 
Mrs Andrews is so well set forth in the excellent essays or 
letters prefixed to the second and subsequent editions of that 
work, that it would be here a needless repetition. The au¬ 
thentic history with which I now present the public is an in¬ 
stance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of the 
prevalence of example which I have just observed: since it 
will appear that it was by keeping the excellent pattern of 
his sister’s virtues before his eyes, that Mr Joseph Andrews 
was chiefly enabled to preserve his purity in the midst of such 
great temptations. I shall only add that this character of 

4 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


male chastity, though doubtless as desirable and becoming 
in one part of the human species as in the other, is almost 
the only virtue which the great apologist hath not given 
himself for the sake of giving the example to his readers. 


CHAPTER II. 

OF MR JOSEPH ANDREWS, HIS BIRTH, PARENTAGE, EDUCATION, 
AND GREAT ENDOWMENTS ; WITH A WORD OR TWO CONCERN¬ 
ING ANCESTORS. 

M R JOSEPH ANDREWS, the hero of our ensuing his¬ 
tory, was esteemed to be the only son of Gaffar and 
Gammer Andrews, and brother to the illustrious Pamela, 
whose virtue is at present so famous. As to his ancestors, 
we have searched with great diligence, but little success; 
being unable to trace them farther than his great-grandfather, 
who, as an elderly person in the parish remembers to have 
heard his father say, was an excellent cudgel-player. Whe¬ 
ther he had any ancestors before this, we must leave to the 
opinion of our curious reader, finding nothing of sufficient 
certainty to rely on. However, we cannot omit inserting an 
epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hath communi¬ 
cated : 

Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew 
Lies fast asleep that merry man Andrew : 

When the last day’s great sun shall gild the skies, 

Then he shall from his tomb get up and rise. 

Be merry while thou canst: for surely thou 
Shalt shortly be as sad as he is now. 

The words are almost out of the stone with antiquity. But 
it is needless to observe that Andrew here is writ without 
an and is, besides, a Christian name. My friend moreover, 
conjectures this to have been the -founder of that sect of 
laughing philosophers since called Merry-andrews. 

To wave, therefore, a circumstance, which, though men¬ 
tioned in conformity to the exact rules of biography, is not 

5 




THE ADVENTURES OF 


greatly material, I proceed to things of more consequence. 
Indeed, it is sufficiently certain that he had as many ancestors 
as the best man living, and, perhaps, if we look five or six 
hundreds years backwards, might be related to some persons 
of very great figure at present, whose ancestors within half 
the last century are buried in as great obscurity. But sup¬ 
pose, for argument’s sake, we should admit that he had no 
ancestors at all, but had sprung up, according to the modern 
phrase, out of a dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they 
themselves did from the earth, would not this autokopros* 
have been justly entitled to all the praise arising from his 
own virtues? Would it not be hard that a man who hath 
no ancestors should therefore be rendered incapable of ac¬ 
quiring honour; when we see so many who have no virtues 
enjoying the honour of their forefathers? At ten years old 
(by which time his education was advanced to writing and 
reading) he was bound an apprentice, according to the statute, 
to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr Booby’s by the father’s 
side. Sir Thomas having then an estate in his own hands, 
the young Andrews was at first employed in what in the 
country they call keeping birds. His office was to perform 
the part the ancients assigned to the god Priapus, which 
deity the moderns call by the name of Jack o’ Lent; but his 
voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured the 
birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the 
fields into the dog-kennel, where he was placed under the 
huntsman, and made what the sportsmen term a whipper-in. 
For this place likewise the sweetness of his voice disqualified 
him; the dogs preferring the melody of *his chiding to all 
the alluring notes of the huntsman; who soon became so 
incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provide other¬ 
wise for him, and constantly laid every fault the dogs were 
at to the account of the poor boy, who was now transplanted 
to the stable. Here he soon gave proofs of strength and 
agility beyond his years, and constantly rode the most spirited 
and vicious horses to water, with an intrepidity which sur¬ 
prised every one. While he was in this station, he rode sev¬ 
eral races for Sir Thomas, and this with such expertness and 
success, that the neighbouring gentlemen frequently solicited 
* In English, sprung from a dunghill. 

6 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


the knight to permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride 
their matches. The best gamesters, before they laid their 
money, always inquired which horse little Joey was to ride; 
and the bets were rather proportioned by the rider than by the 
horse himself; especially after he had scornfully refused a 
considerable bribe to play booty on such an occasion. This 
extremely raised his character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, 
that she desired to have him (being now seventeen years of 
age) for her own footboy. Joey was now preferred from 
the stable to attend on his lady, to go on her errands, stand 
behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer- 
book to church; at which place his voice gave him an oppor¬ 
tunity of distinguishing himself by singing psalms: he 
behaved likewise in every other respect so well at Divine ser¬ 
vice, 'that it recommended him to the notice of Mr Abraham 
Adams, the curate; who took an opportunity one day, as he 
was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas’s kitchen, to ask 
the young man several questions concerning religion; with 
his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased. 


CHAPTER III. 

OF MR ABRAHAM ADAMS THE CURATE, MRS SLIPSLOP THE 
CHAMBERMAID, AND OTHERS. 

M R ABRAHAM ADAMS was an excellent scholar. He 
was a perfect master of the Greek and Latin languages; 
to which he added a great share of knowledge in the Oriental 
tongues; and could read and translate French, Italian, and 
Spanish. He had applied many years to the most severe 
study, and had treasured up a fund of learning rarely to be 
met with in a university. He was, besides, a man of good 
sense, good parts, and good nature; but was at the same time 
as entirely ignorant of the ways of this world as an infant 
just entered into it could possibly be. As he had never any 
intention to deceive, so he never suspected such a design in 
j others. He was generous, friendly, and brave to an excess; 
but simplicity was his characteristic: he did no more than 

7 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


Mr Colley Cibber apprehend any such passions as malice and 
envy to exist in mankind; which was indeed less remarkable 
in a country parson than in a gentleman who hath passed 
his life behind the scenes,—a place which hath been seldom 
thought the school of innocence, and where a very little 
observation would have convinced the great apologist that 
those passions have a real existence in the human mind. 

His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered 
him equal to his office, so they made him an agreeable and 
valuable companion, and had so much endeared and well 
recommended him to a bishop, that at the age of fifty he was 
provided with a handsome income of twenty-three pounds 
a-year; which, however, he could not make any great figure 
with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little in- 
cumbered with a wife and six children. 

It was this gentleman, who having, as I have said, ob¬ 
served the singular devotion of young Andrews, had found 
means to question him concerning several particulars; as, 
how many books there were in the New Testament; which 
were they? how many chapters they contained? and such 
like: to all which Mr Adams privately said, he answered 
much better than Sir Thomas, or two other neighbouring jus¬ 
tices of the peace could probably have done. 

Mr Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what 
time, and by what opportunity, the youth became acquainted 
with these matters: Joey told him that he had very early 
learnt to read and write by the goodness of his father, who, 
though he had not interest enough to get him into a charity 
school, because a cousin of his father’s landlord did not vote 
on the right side for a churchwarden in a borough town, yet 
had been himself at the expense of sixpence a week for his 
learning. He told him likewise, that ever since he was in 
Sir Thomas’s family he had employed all his hours of leisure 
in reading good books; that he had read the Bible, the Whole 
Duty of Man, and Thomas a Kempis; and that as often as 
he could, without being perceived, he had studied a great 
book which lay open in the hall window, where he had read, 
“as how the devil carried away half a church in sermon-time, 
without hurting one of the congregation; and as how a field 
of corn ran away down a hill with all the trees upon it, 

8 




JOSEPH ANDREWS 


and covered another man’s y meadow.” This sufficiently as¬ 
sured Mr Adams that the good book meant could be no 
other than Baker’s Chronicle. 

The curate, surprized to find such instances of industry 
and application in a young man who had never met with the 
least encouragement, asked him if he did not extremely regret 
the want of a liberal education, and the not having been born 
of parents who might have indulged his talents and desire 
of knowledge? To which he answered, he hoped he had 
profited somewhat better from the books he had read than 
to lament his condition in this world. That, for his part, he 
was perfectly content with the state to which he was called; 
that he should endeavour to improve his talent, which was all 
required of him; but not repine at his own lot, nor envy those 
of his betters. “ Well said, my lad,” replied the curate; “ and 
I wish some who have read many more good books, nay, and 
some who have written books themselves, had profited so 
much by them.” 

Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than 
through the waiting-gentlewoman; for Sir Thomas was too 
apt to estimate men merely by their dress or fortune; and 
my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had been blessed with 
a town education, and never spoke of any of her country 
neighbours by any other appellation than that of the brutes. 
They both regarded the curate as a kind of domestic only, 
belonging to the parson of the parish, who was at this time 
at variance with the knight; for the parson had for many 
years lived in a constant state of civil war, or, which is per¬ 
haps as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas himself and the 
tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a 
modus, by setting which aside an advantage of several shil¬ 
lings per annum would have accrued to the rector; but he 
had not yet been able to accomplish his purpose, and had 
reaped hitherto nothing better from the suits than the plea¬ 
sure (which he used indeed frequently to say was no small 
one) of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the 
poor tenants, though he had at the same time greatly im¬ 
poverished himself. 

Mrs Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being herself the 
daughter of a curate, preserved some respect for Adams: she 

9 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


professed great regard for his learning, and would frequently 
dispute with him on points of theology; but always insisted 
on a deference to be paid to her understanding, as she had 
been frequently at London, and knew more of the world 
than a country parson could pretend to. 

She had in these disputes a particular advantage over 
Adams: for she was a mighty affector of hard words, which 
she used in such a manner that the parson, who durst not 
offend her by calling her words in question, was frequently 
at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been 
much less puzzled by an Arabian manuscript. 

Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a 
pretty long discourse with her on the essence (or, as she 
pleased to term it, the incence) of matter, to mention the 
case of young Andrews; desiring her to recommend him to 
her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning, and one 
whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake; by 
which means he might be qualified for a higher station than 
that of a footman; and added, she knew it was in his mas¬ 
ter’s power easily to provide for him in a better manner. He 
therefore desired that the boy might be left behind under his 
care. 

“La! Mr Adams,” said Mrs Slipslop, “do you think my 
lady will suffer any preambles about any such matter? She 
is going to London very concisely, and I am confidous would 
not leave Joey behind her on any account; for he is one of 
the genteelest young fellows you may see in a summer’s day; 
and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with 
a pair of her grey mares, for she values herself as much on 
one as the other.” Adams would have interrupted, but she 
proceeded: “And why is Latin more necessitous for a foot¬ 
man than a gentleman? It is very proper that you clergy¬ 
men must learn it, because you can’t preach without it: but 
I have heard gentlemen say in London, that it is fit for no¬ 
body else. I am confidous my lady would be angry with me 
for mentioning it; and I shall draw myself into no such 
delemy.” At which words her lady’s bell rung, and Mr 
Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second 
opportunity with her before their London journey, which hap¬ 
pened a few days afterwards. However, Andrews behaved 


io 



JOSEPH ’ANDREWS 

very thankfully and gratefully to h ; m for his intended kind¬ 
ness, which he told him he never would forget, and at the 
same time received from the good man many admonitions 
concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his per¬ 
severance in innocence and industry. 


CHAPTER IV. 

WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THEIR JOURNEY TO LONDON. 

N O sooner was young Andrews arrived at London than he 
began to scrape an acquaintance with his party-coloured 
brethren, who endeavoured to make him despise his former 
course of life. His hair was cut after the newest fashion, 
and became his chief care; he went abroad with it all the 
morning in papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. They 
could not however teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any 
other genteel vice the town abounded with. He applied most 
of his leisure hours to music, in which he greatly improved 
himself; and became so perfect a connoisseur in that art, that 
he led the opinion of all the other footmen at an opera, and 
they never condemned or applauded a single song contrary 
to his approbation or dislike. He was a little too forward 
in riots at the playhouses and assemblies; and when he 
attended his lady at church (which was but seldom) he be¬ 
haved with less seeming devotion than formerly: however, 
if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals remained 
entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarter 
and genteeler than any of the beaux in town, either in or out 
of livery. 

His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the 
handsomest and genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that 
it was pity he wanted spirit, began now to find that fault no 
longer; on the contrary, she was frequently heard to cry out: 
“Aye, there is some life in this fellow. ,, She plainly saw the 
effects which the town air hath on the soberest constitutions. 
She would now walk out with him into Hyde Park in a 
morning, and when tired, which happened almost every min- 



ii 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


ute, would lean on his aim, and converse with him in great 
familiarity. Whenever she stept out of her coach, she would 
take him by the hand, and sometimes, for fear of stumbling, 
press it very hard; she admitted him to deliver messages at 
her bedside in a morning, leered at him at table, and in¬ 
dulged him in all those innocent freedoms which women of 
figure may permit without the least sully of their virtue. 

But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet now and 
then some small arrows will glance on the shadow of it, their 
reputation; and so it fell out to Lady Booby, who happened 
to be walking arm-in-arm with Joey one morning in Hyde 
Park, when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally by 
in their coach. “Bless me,” says Lady Tittle, “can I believe 
my eyes? Is that Lady Booby?”—“Surely,” says Tattle. 
“But what makes you surprised?”—“Why, is not that her 
footman?” replied Tittle. At which Tattle laughed, and 
cried, “An old business, I assure you: is it possible you should 
not have heard it? The whole town hath known it this half- 
year.” The consequence of this interview was a whisper 
through a hundred visits, which were separately performed 
by the two ladies* the same afternoon, and might have had 
a mischievous effect, had it not been stopt by two fresh repu¬ 
tations which were published the day afterwards, and en¬ 
grossed the whole talk of the town. 

But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous inclina¬ 
tion of defamers might entertain of Lady Booby’s innocent 
freedoms, it is certain they made no impression on young 
Andrews, who never offered to encroach beyond the liberties 
which his lady allowed him,—a behaviour which she im¬ 
puted to the violent respect he preserved for her, and which 
served only to heighten a something she began to conceive, 
and which the next chapter will open a little farther. 

* It may seem an absurdity that Tattle should visit, as she actually 
did, to spread a known scandal: but the reader may reconcile this by 
supposing, with me, that notwithstanding what she says, this was her 
first acquaintance with it. 



12 




JOSEPH ANDREWS 


CHAPTER V. 

THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS BOOBY, WITH THE AFFECTIONATE 
AND MOURNFUL BEHAVIOUR OF HIS WIDOW, AND THE GREAT 
PURITY OF JOSEPH ANDREWS. 

AT this time an accident happened which put a stop to 
XlL those agreeable walks, which probably would have soon 
puffed up the cheeks of Fame and caused her to blow her 
brazen trumpet through the town; and this was no other 
than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who, departing this life, 
left his disconsolate lady confined to her house, as closely as 
if she herself had been attacked by some violent disease. Dur¬ 
ing the first six days the poor lady admitted none but Mrs 
Slipslop, and three female friends, who made a party at cards: 
but on the seventh she ordered Joey, whom, for a good reason, 
we shall hereafter call Joseph, to bring up her tea-kettle. 
The lady being in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sit 
down, and, having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked 
him if he had ever been in love. Joseph answered, with 
some confusion, it was time enough for one so young as 
himself to think on such things. “As young as you are,” re¬ 
plied the lady, “ I am convinced you are no stranger to that 
passion. Come, Joey,” says she, “ tell me truly, who is the 
happy girl whose eyes have made a conquest of you ? ” Jo¬ 
seph returned, that all the women he had ever seen were 
equally indifferent to him. “ O then,” said'the lady, “ you are 
a general lover. Indeed, you handsome fellows, like hand¬ 
some women, are very long and difficult in fixing; but yet 
you shall never persuade me that your heart is so insusceptible 
of affection; I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, 
a very commendable quality, and what I am far from being 
angry with you for. Nothing can be more unworthy in a 
young man, than to betray any intimacies with the ladies.” 
“ Ladies! madam,” said Joseph, “ I am sure I never had the 
impudence to think of any that deserve that name.” “ Don’t 
pretend to too much modesty,” said she, “for that some¬ 
times may be impertinent: but pray answer me this question. 
Suppose a lady should happen to like you; suppose she should 

13 


THE ADVENTURES. OF. 

prefer you to all your sex, and admit you to the same famil¬ 
iarities as you might have hoped for if you had been born her 
equal, are you certain that no vanity could tempt you to dis¬ 
cover her? Answer me honestly, Joseph; have you so much 
more sense and so much more virtue than you handsome young 
fellows generally have, who make no scruple of sacrificing our 
dear reputation to your pride, without considering the great 
obligation we lay on you by our condescension and confidence ? 
Can you keep a secret, my Joey? ” “ Madam,” says he, “ I 
hope your ladyship can’t tax me with ever betraying the secrets 
of the family; and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I might 
have that character of you.” “ I don’t intend to turn you 
away, Joey,” said she, and sighed; “ I am afraid it is not in 
my power.” She then raised herself a little in her bed, and 
discovered one of the whitest necks that ever was seen; at 
which Joseph blushed. “ La! ” says she, in an affected sur¬ 
prize, “ what am I doing? I have trusted myself with a man 
alone, naked in bed; suppose you should have any wicked 
intentions upon my honour, how should I defend myself ? ” 
Joseph protested that he never had the least evil design 
against her. “ No,” says she, “ perhaps you may not call your 
designs wicked; and perhaps' they are not so.”—He swore 
they were not. “ You misunderstand me,” says she; “ I mean 
if they were against my honour, they may not be wicked; 
but the world calls them so. But then, say you, the world 
will never know anything of the matter; yet would not that 
be trusting to your secrecy ? Must not my reputation be then 
in your power? Would you not then be my master?” Jo¬ 
seph begged her ladyship to be comforted; for that he would 
never imagine the least wicked thing against her, and that 
he had rather die a thousand deaths than give her any rea¬ 
son to suspect him. “ Yes,” said she, “ I must have reason 
to suspect you. Are you not a man? and, without vanity, I 
may pretend to some charms. But perhaps you may fear I 
should prosecute you; indeed I hope you do; and yet Heaven 
knows I should never have the confidence to appear before 
a court of justice; and you know, Joey, I am of a forgiving 
temper. Tell me, Joey, don’t you think I should forgive 
you?”—“Indeed, madam,” says Joseph, “I will never do 
anything to disoblige your ladyship.” (i How,” says she, 

14 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


“ do you think it would not disoblige me then ? Do you think 
I would willingly suffer you ? ”—“ I don’t understand you, 
madam,” says Joseph.—“Don’t you?” said she, “then you 
are either a fool, or pretend to be so; I find I was mistaken in 
you. So get you down-stairs, and never let me see your face 
again; your pretended innocence cannot impose on me.”— 
“ Madam,” said Joseph, “ I would not have your ladyship 
think any evil of me. I have always endeavoured to be a 
dutiful servant both to you and my master.”—“ O thou 
villain! ” answered my lady; “ why didst thou mention the 
name of that dear man, unless to torment me, to bring his 
precious memory to my mind?” (and then she burst into a 
fit of tears.) “ Get thee from my sight! I shall never en¬ 
dure thee more.” At which words she turned away from 
him; and Joseph retreated from the room in a most dis¬ 
consolate condition, and writ that letter which the reader will 
find in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER VI. 

HOW JOSEPH ANDREWS WRIT A LETTER TO HIS SISTER PAMELA. 

“ To Mrs Pamela Andrews, living with Squire Booby. 

“ Dear Sister, —Since I received your letter of your good 
lady’s death, we have had a misfortune of the same kind in 
our family. My worthy master Sir Thomas died about four 
days ago; and, what is worse, my poor lady is certainly gone 
distracted. None of the servants expected her to take it so 
to heart, because they quarrelled almost every day of their 
lives: but no more of that, because you know, Pamela, I 
never loved to tell the secrets of my master’s family; but to 
be sure you must have known they never loved one another; 
and I have heard her ladyship wish his honour dead above a 
thousand times; but nobody knows what it is to lose a 
friend till they have lost him. 

“Don’t tell anybody what I write, because I should not 
care to have folks say I discover what passes in our family; 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


but if it had not been so great a lady, I should have thought 
she had had a mind to me. Dear Pamela, don’t tell any¬ 
body; but she ordered me to sit down by her bed-side, when 
she was naked in bed; and she held my hand, and talked 
exactly as a lady does to her sweetheart in a stage-play, 
which I have seen in Covent Garden, while she wanted him 
to be no better than he should be. 

“ If madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long in the 
family; so I heartily wish you could get me a place,- either 
at the squire’s, or some other neighbouring gentleman’s, un¬ 
less it be true that you are going to be married to parson 
Williams, as folks talk, and then I should be very willing to 
be his clerk; for which you know I am qualified, being able 
to read and to set a psalm. 

“ I fancy I shall be discharged very soon; and the moment 
I am, unless I hear from you, I shall return to my old mas¬ 
ter’s country-seat, if it be only to see parson Adams, who is 
the best man in the world. London is a bad place, and there 
is so little good fellowship, that the next-door neighbours 
don’t know one another. Pray give my service to all friends 
that inquire for me. So I rest 

“Your loving brother, 

“ Joseph Andrews.” 

As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter he 
walked down-stairs, where he met Mrs Slipslop, with whom 
we shall take this opportunity to bring the reader a little bet¬ 
ter acquainted. She was a maiden gentlewoman of about 
forty-five years of age, who, having made a small slip in her 
youth, had continued a good maid ever since. She was not 
at this time remarkably handsome; being very short, and 
rather too corpulent in body, and somewhat red, with the 
addition of pimples in the face. Her nose was likewise rather 
too large, and her eyes too little; nor did she resemble a cow 
so much in her breath as in two brown globes which she 
carried before her; one of her legs was also a little shorter 
than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. 
This fair creature had long cast the eyes of affection on Jo¬ 
seph, in which she had not met with quite so good success as 
she probably wished, though, besides the allurements of her 

16 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


native charms, she had given him tea, sweetmeats, wine, and 
many other delicacies, of which, by keeping the keys, she had 
the absolute command. Joseph, however, had not returned 
the least gratitude to all these favours, not even so much as 
a kiss; though I would not insinuate she was so easily to be 
satisfied; for surely then he would have been highly blameable 
The truth is, she was arrived at an age when she thought she 
might indulge herself in any liberties with a man, without the 
danger of bringing a third person into the world to betray 
them. She imagined that by so long a self-denial she had not 
only made amends for the small slip of her youth above 
hinted at, but had likewise laid up a quantity of merit to 
excuse any future failings. In a word, she resolved to give 
a loose to her amorous inclinations, and to pay off the debt of 
pleasure which she found she owed herself, as fast as pos¬ 
sible. 

With these charms of person, and in this disposition of 
mind, she encountered poor Joseph at the bottom of the 
stairs, and asked him if he would drink a glass of something 
good this morning. Joseph, whose spirits were not a little 
cast down, very readily and thankfully accepted the offer; 
and together they went into a closet, where, having delivered 
him a full glass of ratafia, and desired him to sit down, Mrs 
Slipslop thus began:— 

“ Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in a woman 
than to place her affections on a boy. If I had ever thought 
it would have been my fate, I should have wished to die a 
thousand deaths rather than live to see that day. If we 
like a man, the lightest hint sophisticates. Whereas a boy 
proposes upon us to break through all the regulations of 
modesty, before we can make any oppression upon him.” 
Joseph, who did not understand a word she said, answered, 
“ Yes, madam.”—'“ Yes, madam! ” replied Mrs Slipslop with 
some warmth, “ Do you intend to insult my passion ? Is it 
not enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all 
the favours I have done you; but you must treat me with 
ironing? Barbarous monster! how have I deserved that my 
passion should be resulted and treated with ironing? ” “ Ma¬ 
dam,” answered Joseph, “I don’t understand your hard 
words; but I am certain you have no occasion to call me un- 
2 17 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


grateful, for, so far from intending you any wrong, I have 
always loved you as well as if you had been my own mother.” 
“ How, sirrah ? ” says Mrs Slipslop in a rage; “ your own 
mother? Do you assinuate that I am old enough to be your 
mother? I don’t know what a stripling may think, but I be¬ 
lieve a man would refer me to any green-sickness silly girl 
whatsomdever: but I ought to despise you rather than be 
angry with you, for referring the conversation of girls to that 
of a woman of sense.”—“ Madam,” says Joseph, “ I am sure 
I have always valued the honour you did me by your conver¬ 
sation, for I know you are a woman of learning .”—“ Yes, 
but, Joseph,” said she, a little softened by the compliment 
to her learning, “ If you had a value for me, you certainly 
would have found some method of showing it me; for I am 
convicted you must see the value I have for you. Yes, Jo¬ 
seph, my eyes, whether I would or no, must have declared 
a passion I cannot conquer.—Oh! Joseph! ” 

As when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed the 
woods in fruitless search, sees within the reach of her claws 
a lamb, she prepares to leap on her prey; or as a voracious 
pike of immense size, surveys through the liquid element a 
roach or gudgeon, which cannot escape her jaws, opens them 
wide to swallow the little fish; so did Mrs Slipslop prepare 
to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Joseph, when 
luckily her mistress’s bell rung, and delivered the intended 
martyr from her clutches. She was obliged to leave him 
abruptly, and to defer the execution of her purpose till some 
other time. We shall therefore return to the Lady Booby, 
and give our reader some account of her behaviour, after she 
was left by Joseph in a temper of mind not greatly different 
from that of the inflamed Slipslop. 


18 


J 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


CHAPTER VII. 

SAYINGS OF WISE MEN. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE LADY AND 
HER MAID; AND A PANEGYRIC, OR RATHER SATIRE, ON THE 
PASSION OF LOVE, IN THE SUBLIME STYLE. 

I T is the observation of some ancient sage, whose name I 
have forgot, that passions operate differently on the hu¬ 
man mind, as diseases on the body, in proportion to the 
strength or weakness, soundness or rottenness, of the one and 
the other. 

We hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give himself 
some pains to observe, what we have so greatly laboured to 
describe, the different operations of this passion of love in 
the gentle and cultivated mind of the Lady Booby, from 
those which it effected in the less polished and coarser dis¬ 
position of Mrs Slipslop. 

Another philosopher, whose name also at present escapes 
my memory, hath somewhere said, that resolutions taken in 
the absence of the beloved object are very apt to vanish in 
its presence; on both which wise sayings the following chap¬ 
ter may serve as a comment. 

No sooner had Joseph left the room in the manner we 
have before related than the lady, enraged at her disappoint¬ 
ment, began to reflect with severity on her conduct. Her 
love was now changed to disdain, which pride assisted to 
torment her. She despised herself for the meanness of her 
passion, and Joseph for its ill-success. However, she had 
now got the better of it in her own opinion, and determined 
immediately to dismiss the object. After much tossing and 
turning in her bed, and many soliloquies, which if we had 
no better matter for our reader we would give him, she at 
last rung the bell as above mentioned, and was presently 
attended by Mrs Slipslop, who was not much better pleased 
with Joseph than the lady herself. 

“ Slipslop,” said Lady Booby, “ when did you see Joseph? ” 
The poor woman was so surprised at the unexpected sound 
of his name at so critical a time, that she had the greatest 
difficulty to conceal the confusion she was under from her 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


mistress; whom she answered, nevertheless, with pretty good 
confidence, though not entirely void of fear of suspicion, 
that she had not seen him that morning. “ I am afraid,” said 
Lady Booby, “ he is a wild young fellow.”—“ That he is,” said 
Slipslop, “ and a wicked one too. To my knowledge he 
games, drinks, swears, and fights eternally; besides, he is 
horribly indicted to wenching.”—“ Ay! ” said the lady, “ I 
never heard that of him.”—“ O madam! ” answered the other, 
“ he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship keeps him 
much longer, you will not have one virgin in your house 
except myself. And yet I can’t conceive what the wenches 
see in him, to be so foolishly fond as they are; in my eyes, 
he is as ugly a scarecrow as I ever beheld.”—“ Nay,” said the 
lady, “ the boy is well enough .”—“ La ! ma’am,” cries Slipslop, 
“ I think him the ragmaticallest fellow in the family.”— 
“ Sure, Slipslop,” says she, “ you are mistaken: but which of 
the women do you most suspect ? ”—“ Madam,” says Slipslop, 
“ there is Betty the chamber-maid, I am almost convicted, is 
with child by him.”—“ Ay! ” says the lady, “ then pray pay 
her her wages instantly. I will keep no such sluts in my 
family. And as for Joseph, you may discard him too.”— 
“ Would your ladyship have him paid off immediately ? ” 
cries Slipslop, “ for perhaps, when Betty is gone he may 
mend: and really the boy is a good servant, and a strong 
healthy luscious boy enough.”—“ This morning,” answered 
the lady with some vehemence. “ I wish, madam,” cries Slip¬ 
slop, “ your ladyship would be so good as to try him a little 
longer.”—“ I will not have my commands disputed,” said the 
lady; “ sure you are not fond of him yourself.”—“ I, ma¬ 
dam ! ” cries Slipslop, reddening, if not blushing, “ I should 
be sorry to think your ladyship had any reason to respect me 
of fondness for a fellow; and if it be your pleasure, I shall 
fulfil it with as much reluctance as possible.”—“ As little, I 
suppose you mean,” said the lady; “ and so about it instantly.” 
Mrs Slipslop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two 
turns before she fell to knocking and ringing with great vio¬ 
lence. Slipslop, who did not travel post haste, soon returned, 
and was countermanded as to Joseph, but ordered to send 
Betty about her business without delay. She went out a 
second time .with much greater alacrity than before; when 

20 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


the lady began immediately to accuse herself of want of reso¬ 
lution, and to apprehend the return of her affection, with 
its pernicious consequences; she therefore applied herself 
again to the bell, and resummoned Mrs Slipslop into her 
presence; who again returned, and was told by her mistress 
that she had considered better of the matter, and was abso¬ 
lutely resolved to turn away Joseph; which she ordered her 
to do immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of her 
lady’s temper, and would not venture her place for any 
Adonis or Hercules in the universe, left her a third time; 
which she had no sooner done, than the little god Cupid, 
fearing he had not yet done the lady’s business, took a fresh 
arrow with the sharpest point out of his quiver, and shot it 
directly into her heart; in other and plainer language, the 
lady’s passion got the better of her reason. She called back 
Slipslop once more, and told her she had resolved to see the 
boy, and examine him herself; therefore bid her send him 
up. This wavering in her mistress’s temper probably put 
something into the waiting-gentlewoman’s head not necessary 
to mention to the sagacious reader. 

Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could 
not prevail with herself. The next consideration therefore 
was, how she should behave to Joseph when he came in. 
She resolved to preserve all the dignity of the woman of 
fashion to her servant, and to indulge herself in this last 
view of Joseph (for that she was most certainly resolved it 
should be) at his own expense, by first insulting and then 
discarding him. 

O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy 
votaries of both sexes! How dost thou deceive them, and 
make them deceive themselves! Their follies are thy de¬ 
light! Their sighs make thee laugh, and their pangs are thy. 
merriment! 

Not the great Rich, who turns men into monkeys, wheel¬ 
barrows, and whatever else best humours his fancy, hath so 
strangely metamorphosed the human shape; nor the great 
Cibber, who confounds all number, gender, and breaks 
through every rule of grammar at his will, hath so distorted 
the English language as thou dost metamorphose and distort 
the human senses. 


21 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


Thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, and takest 
away the power of our nostrils; so that we can neither see 
the largest object, hear the loudest noise, nor smell the most 
poignant perfume. Again, when thou pleasest, thou canst 
make a molehill appear as a mountain, a Jew’s-harp sound 
like a trumpet, and a daisy smell like a violet. Thou canst 
make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride humble, and 
cruelty tender-hearted. In short, thou turnest the heart of 
man inside out, as a juggler doth a petticoat, and bringest 
whatsoever pleaseth thee out from it. If there be any one 
who doubts all this, let him read the next chapter. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

IN WHICH, AFTER SOME VERY FINE WRITING, THE HISTORY 
GOES ON, AND RELATES THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE LADY 
AND JOSEPH ; WHERE THE LATTER HATH SET AN EXAMPLE 
WHICH WE DESPAIR OF SEEING FOLLOWED BY HIS SEX IN 
THIS VICIOUS AGE. 

N OW the rake Hesperus had called for his breeches, and, 
having well rubbed his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress 
himself for all night; by whose example his brother rakes on 
earth likewise leave those beds in which they had slept away 
the day. Now Thetis, the good housewife, began to put on 
the pot, in order to regale the good man Phoebus after his 
daily labours were over. In vulgar language, it was in the 
evening when Joseph attended his lady’s orders. 

But as it becomes us to preserve the character of this lady, 
who is the heroine of our tale; and as we have naturally a 
wonderful tenderness for that beautiful part of the human 
species called the fair sex; before we discover too much of 
her frailty to our reader, it will be proper to give him a lively 
idea of the vast temptation, which overcame all the efforts of 
a modest and virtuous mind; and then we humbly hope his 
good nature will rather pity than condemn the imperfection 
of human virtue. 

Nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be induced, by 

22 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


considering the uncommon variety of charms which united 
in this young man’s person, to bridle their rampant passion 
for chastity, and be at least as mild as their violent modesty 
and virtue will permit them, in censuring the conduct of a 
woman who, perhaps, was in her own disposition as chaste 
as those pure and sanctified virgins who, after a life inno¬ 
cently spent in the gaieties of the town, begin about fifty to 
attend twice per diem at the polite churches and chapels, to 
return thanks for the grace which preserved them formerly 
amongst beaux from temptations perhaps less powerful than 
what now attacked the Lady Booby. 

Mr Joseph Andrews was now in the one-and-twentieth 
year of his age. He was of the highest degree of middle 
stature; his limbs were put together with great elegance, 
and no less strength; his legs and thighs were formed in the 
exactest proportion; his shoulders were broad and brawny, 
but yet his arms hung so easily, that he had all the symp¬ 
toms of strength without the least clumsiness. His hair was 
of a nut-brown colour, and was displayed in wanton ringlets 
down his back; his forehead was high, his eyes dark, and as 
full of sweetness as of fire; his nose a little inclined to the 
Roman; his teeth white and even; his lips full, red, and soft; 
his beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip; but his 
cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread with a 
thick down; his countenance had a tenderness joined with 
a sensibility inexpressible. Add to this the most perfect neat¬ 
ness in his dress, and an air which, to those who have not seen 
many noblemen, would give an idea of nobility. 

Such was the person who now appeared before the lady. 
She viewed him some time in silence, and twice or thrice be¬ 
fore she spoke changed her mind as to the manner in which 
she should begin. At length she said to him, “ Joseph, I am 
sorry to hear such complaints against you: I am told you be¬ 
have so rudely to the maids, that they cannot do their business 
in quiet; I mean those who are not wicked enough to hearken 
to your solicitations. As to others, they may, perhaps, not 
call you rude; for there are wicked sluts who make one 
ashamed of one’s own sex, and are as ready to admit any 
nauseous familiarity as fellows to offer it: nay, there are 
such in my family, but they shall not stay in it; that imprudent 


THE ADVENTURES OE 

trollop who is with child by you is discharged by this 
time.” 

As a person who is struck through the heart with a thun¬ 
derbolt looks extremely surprized, nay, and perhaps is so too 

/-thus the poor Joseph received the false accusation of his 

mistress; he blushed and looked confounded, which she mis¬ 
interpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, and thus went on: 

“ Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might discard you 
for these offences; but I have a compassion for your youth, 
and if I could be certain you would be no more guilty—Con¬ 
sider, child,” laying her hand carelessly upon his, “ you are a 
handsome young fellow, and might do better; you might 
make your fortune.” “ Madam,” said Joseph, “ I do assure 
your ladyship I don’t know whether any maid in the house 
is man or woman.” “ Oh fie! Joseph,” answered the lady, 
“ don’t commit another crime in denying the truth. I could 
pardon the first; but I hate a liar.” “ Madam,” cries Joseph, 
“ I hope your ladyship will not be offended at my asserting 
my innocence; for, by all that is sacred, I have never offered 
more than kissing.” “ Kissing! ” said the lady with great 
discomposure of countenance, and more redness in her cheeks 
- than anger in her eyes; “ do you call that no crime ? Kissing, 
Joseph, is as a prologue to a play. Can I believe a young 
fellow of your age and complexion will be content with kiss¬ 
ing? No, Joseph, there is no woman who grants that but 
will grant more; and I am deceived greatly in you if you 
would not put her closely to it. What would you think, 
Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss me?” Joseph replied he 
would sooner die than have any such thought. “ And yet, 
Joseph,” returned she, “ ladies have admitted their footmen 
to such familiarities; and footmen, I confess to you, much less 
deserving them; fellows without half your charms,—for such 
might almost excuse the crime. Tell me therefore, Joseph, if I 
should admit you to such freedom, what would you think of 
me ?—tell me freely.” “ Madam,” said Joseph, “ I should 
think your ladyship condescended a great deal below your¬ 
self.” “ Pugh! ” said she; “ that I am to answer to myself: 
but would not you insist on more? Would you be contented 
with a kiss? Would not your inclinations be all on fire rather 
by such a favour?” “ Madam,” said Joseph, “ if they were 
I hope I should be ablj to'Witrol them, without suffering 

24 




JOSEPH ANDREWS 

them to get the better of my virtue.” You have heard, reader, 
poets talk of the statue of Surprize; you have heard like¬ 
wise, or else you have heard very little, how surprize made 
one of the sons of Croesus speak, though he was dumb. You 
have seen the faces, in the eighteen-penny gallery, when, 
through the trap-door, to soft or no music, Mr Bridgewater, 
Mr William Mills, or some other of ghostly appearance, hath 
ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a shirt all 
bloody with ribbons;—but from none of these, nor from Phi¬ 
dias or Praxiteles, if they should return to life—no, not from 
the inimitable pencil of my friend Hogarth, could you receive 
such an idea of surprize as would have entered in at your 
eyes had they beheld the Lady Booby when those last words 
issued out from the lips of Joseph. “ Your virtue! ” said the 
lady, recovering after a silence of two minutes; “ I shall never 
survive it. Your virtue!—intolerable confidence! Have you 
the assurance to pretend, that when a lady demeans herself 
to throw aside the rules of decency, in order to honour you 
with the highest favour in her power, your virtue should re¬ 
sist her inclination? that, when she had conquered her own 
virtue, she should find an obstruction in yours ? ” “ Madam/’ 
said Joseph, “ I can’t see why her having no virtue should be 
a reason against my having any; or why, because I am a man, 
or because I am poor, my virtue must be subservient to her 
pleasures.” “ I am out of patience,” cries the lady: “ did ever 
moftal hear of a man’s virtue? Did ever the greatest or the 
gravest men pretend to any of this kind? Will magistrates 
who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make 
any scruple of committing it? And can a boy, a stripling, 
have the confidence to talk of his virtue ? ” “ Madam,” says 
Joseph, “ that boy is the brother of Pamela, and would be 
ashamed that the chastity of his family, which is preserved 
in her, should be stained in him. If there are such men as 
your ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it; and I wish they 
had an opportunity of reading over those letters which my 
father has sent me of my sister Pamela’s; nor do I doubt 
but such an example would amend them.” “ You impudent 
villain! ” cries the lady in a rage; “ do you insult me with 
the follies of my relation, who hath exposed himself all over 
the country upon your sister’s account? a little vixen, whom 
I have always wondered my late Lady John Booby ever kept 

25 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


in her house. Sirrah! get out of my sight, and prepare to 
set out this night; for I will order you your wages imme¬ 
diately, and you shall be stripped and turned away.” 
“ Madam,” says Joseph, “ I am sorry I have offended your 
ladyship, I am sure I never intended it.” “ Yes, sirrah,” 
cries she, “ you have had the vanity to misconstrue the little 
innocent freedom I took, in order to try whether what I had 
heard was true. O’ my conscience, you have had the assurance 
to imagine I was fond of you myself.” Joseph answered, he 
had only spoke out of tenderness for his virtue; at which 
words she flew into a violent passion, and refusing to hear 
more, ordered him instantly to leave the room. 

He was no sooner gone than she burst forth into the fol¬ 
lowing exclamation:—“ Whither doth this violent passion 
hurry us? What meannesses do we submit to from its im¬ 
pulse! Wisely we resist its first and least approaches; for 
it is then only we can assure ourselves the victory. No 
woman could ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have I 
not exposed myself to the refusal of my footman. I cannot 
bear the reflection.” Upon which she applied herself to the 
bell, and rung it with infinitely more violence than was 
necessary,—the faithful Slipslop attending near at hand: to 
say the truth, she had conceived a suspicion at her last in¬ 
terview with her mistress, and had waited ever since in the 
antechamber, having carefully applied her ears to the keyhole 
during the whole time that the preceding conversation passed 
between Joseph and the lady. 


CHAPTER IX. 

WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE LADY AND MRS SLIPSLOP; 
IN WHICH WE PROPHESY THERE ARE SOME STROKES WHICH 
EVERY ONE WILL NOT TRULY COMPREHEND AT THE FIRST 
READING. 

S LIPSLOP,” said the lady, “ I find too much reason to be¬ 
lieve all thou hast told me of this wicked Joseph; I have 
determined to part with him instantly; so go you to the stew- 

26 






JOSEPH ANDREWS 


ard, and bid him pay him his wages.” Slipslop, who had pre ¬ 
served hitherto a distance to her lady—rather out of neces¬ 
sity than inclination—and who thought the knowledge of 
this secret had thrown down all distinction between them, 
answered her mistress very pertly—she wished she knew 
her own mind; and that she was certain she would call her 
back again before she was got half way down-stairs. The 
lady replied, she had taken a resolution, and was resolved to 
keep it. “ I am sorry for it,” cries Slipslop, “ and if I had 
known you would have punished the poor lad so severely, 
you should never have heard a particle of the matter. Here’s 
a fuss indeed about nothing!” “ Nothing! ” returned my 

lady; “ do you think I will countenance lewdness in my 
house? ” “ If you will turn away every footman,” said Slip¬ 
slop, “ that is a lover of the sport, you must soon open the 
coach door yourself, or get a set of mophrodites to wait upon 
you; and I am sure I hated the sight of them even singing 
in an opera.” “ Do as I bid you,” says my lady, “ and don’t 
shock my ears with your beastly language.” “ Marry come 
up,” cries Slipslop, “ people’s ears are sometimes the nicest 
part about them.” 

The lady, who began to admire the new style in which her 
waiting-gentlewoman delivered herself, and by the conclusion 
of her speech suspected somewhat of the truth, called her 
back, and desired to know what she meant by the extraor¬ 
dinary degree of freedom in which she thought proper to 
indulge her tongue. “ Freedom!” says Slipslop; “I don’t 
know what you call freedom, madam; servants have tongues 
as well as their mistresses.” “ Yes, and saucy ones too,” an¬ 
swered the lady; “ but I assure you I shall bear no such 
impertinence.” “ Impertinence! I don’t know that I am im¬ 
pertinent,” says Slipslop. “ Yes, indeed you are,” cries my 
lady, “ and, unless you mend your manners, this house is 
no place for you.” “ Manners! ” cries Slipslop; “ I never was 
thought to want manners nor modesty neither; and for places, 
there are more places than one; and I know what I know.”— 
“ What do you know, mistress ? ” answered the lady. “ I am 
not obliged to tell that to everybody,” says Slipslop, “any 
more than I am obliged to keep it a secret.” “ I desire you 
will provide yourself,” answered the lady. “ With all my 

27 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


* 

heart,” replied the waiting-gentlewoman; and so departed in 
a passion, and slammed the door after her. 

The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting-gentle¬ 
woman knew more than she would willingly have had her 
acquainted with; and this she imputed to Joseph’s having 
discovered to her what passed at the first interview. This, 
therefore, blew up her rage against him, and confirmed her 
in a resolution of parting with him. 

But the dismissing of Mrs Slipslop was a point not so easily 
to be resolved upon. She had the utmost tenderness for her 
reputation, as she knew on that depended many of the most 
valuable blessings of life; particularly cards, making curtsies 
in public places, and, above all, the pleasure of demolishing 
the reputations of others, in which innocent amusement she 
had an extraordinary delight. She therefore determined to 
submit to any insult from a servant, rather than run a risk of 
losing the title to so many great privileges. 

She therefore sent for her steward, Mr Peter Pounce, and 
ordered him to pay Joseph his wages, to strip off his livery, 
and to turn him out of the house that evening. 

She then called Slipslop up, and, after refreshing her spir¬ 
its with a small cordial, which she kept in her closet, she began 
in the following manner: 

“ Slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate temper, 
attempt to provoke me by your answers? I am convinced 
you are an honest servant, and should be very unwilling to 
part with you. I believe, likewise, you have found me an 
indulgent mistress on many occasions, and have as little rea¬ 
son on your side to desire a change. I can’t help being sur¬ 
prised, therefore, that you will take the surest method to 
offend me—I mean, repeating my words, which you know I 
have always detested.” 

The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly weighed the 
whole matter, and found, on mature deliberation, that a good 
place in possession was better than one in expectation. As 
she found her mistress, therefore, inclined to relent, she 
thought proper also to put on some small condescension, 
which was as readily accepted; and so the affair was recon¬ 
ciled, all offences forgiven, and a present of a gown and 
petticoat made her, as an instance of her lady’s future favour. 

28 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


She offered once or twice to speak in favour of Jos 
but found her lady’s heart so obdurate, that she prude 
dropt all such efforts. She considered there were more 
men in the house, and some as stout fellows, though not c 
so handsome, as Joseph; besides, the reader hath alre. 
seen her tender advances had not met with the encourage 
ment she might have reasonably expected. She thought she 
had thrown away a great deal of sack and sweetmeats on an 
ungrateful rascal; and, being a little inclined to the opinion 
of that female sect, who hold one lusty young fellow to be 
nearly as good as another lusty young fellow, she at last gave 
up Joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over her passion 
highly commendable, walked off with her present, and with 
great tranquillity paid a visit to a stone-bottle, which is of 
sovereign use to a philosophical temper. 

She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady could not 
reflect without agony that her dear reputation was in the 
power of her servants. All her comfort as to Joseph was, 
that she hoped he did not understand her meaning; at least 
she could say for herself, she had not plainly expressed any 
thing to him; and as to Mrs Slipslop, she imagined she could 
bribe her to secresy. 

But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so 
entirely conquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in 
her heart, though anger and disdain so hoodwinked her, that 
she could not see him. She was a thousand times on the very 
brink of revoking the sentence she had passed against the 
poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whispered many 
things in his favour. Honour likewise endeavoured to vindi¬ 
cate his crime, and Pity to mitigate his punishment. On the 
other side, Pride and Revenge spoke as loudly against him. 
And thus the poor lady was tortured with perplexity, opposite 
passions distracting and tearing her mind different ways. 

So have I seen, in the hall of Westminster, where Serjeant 
Bramble hath been retained on the right side, and Serjeant 
Puzzle on the left, the balance of opinion (so equal were 
their fees) alternately incline to either scale. Now Bramble 
throws in an argument, and Puzzle’s scale strikes the beam; 
again Bramble shares the like fate, overpowered by the weight 
of Puzzle. Here Bramble hits, there Puzzle strikes; here 

29 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


* 


las you, there t'other has you; till at last all becomes one 
e of confusion in the tortured minds of the hearers; equal 
ars are laid on the success, and neither judge nor jury can 
ibly make anything of the matter; all things are so en- 
oped by the careful serjeants in doubt and obscurity. 

Or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour and hon¬ 
esty pull one way, and a bribe and necessity another.-If 

it was our present business only to make similes, we could 
produce many more to this purpose; but a simile (as well as 
a word) to the wise.—We shall therefore see a little after our 
hero, for whom the reader is doubtless in some pain. 


CHAPTER X. 

JOSEPH WRITES ANOTHER LETTER: HIS TRANSACTIONS WITH 
MR PETER POUNCE, ETC., WITH HIS DEPARTURE FROM LADY 
BOOBY. 

T HE disconsolate Joseph would not have had an under¬ 
standing sufficient for the principal subject of such a 
book as this, if he had any longer misunderstood the drift 
of his mistress; and indeed, that he did not discern it sooner, 
the reader will be pleased to impute to an unwillingness in him 
to discover what he must condemn in her as a fault. Having 
therefore quitted her presence, he retired into his own garret, 
and entered himself into an ejaculation on the numberless 
calamities which attended beauty, and the misfortune it was 
to be handsomer than one’s neighbours. 

He then sat down, and addressed himself to his sister Pa¬ 
mela in the following words: 

“Dear Sister Pamela, —Hoping you are well, what news 
have I to tell you! O Pamela! my mistress is fallen in love 
with me—that is, what great folks call falling in love,—she 
has a mind to ruin me; but I hope I shall have more resolu¬ 
tion and more grace than to part with my virtue to any lady 
upon earth. 

“ Mr Adams hath often told me, that chastity is as great a 
.virtue in a man as in a woman. He says he never knew any 

30 






JOSEPH ANDREWS 


more than his wife, and I shall endeavour to follow his ex¬ 
ample. Indeed, it is owing entirely to his excellent sermons 
and advice, together with your letters, that I have been able 
to resist a temptation, which, he says, no man complies with, 
but he repents in this world, or is damned for it in the next; 
and why should I trust to repentance on my deathbed, since 
I may die in my sleep? But fine things are good advice 
and good examples! But I am glad she turned me out of 
the chamber as she did: for I had once almost forgotten every 
word parson Adams had ever said to me. 

“ I don’t doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace to pre¬ 
serve your virtue against all trials; and I beg you earnestly 
to pray I may be enabled to preserve mine; for truly it is 
very severely attacked by more than one; but I hope I shall 
copy your example, and that of Joseph my namesake, and 
maintain my virtue against all temptations.” 

Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned 
down-stairs by Mr Peter Pounce, to receive his wages; for, 
besides that out of eight pounds a-year he allowed his father 
and mother four, he had been obliged, in order to furnish 
himself with musical instruments, to apply to the generosity 
of the aforesaid Peter, who, on urgent occasions, used to ad¬ 
vance the servants their wages: not before they were due, 
but before they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a year 
after they were due; and this at the moderate premium of 
fifty per cent, or a little more: by which charitable methods, 
together with lending money to other people, and even to 
his own master and mistress, the honest man had, from no¬ 
thing, in a few years amassed a small sum of twenty thou¬ 
sand pounds or thereabouts. 

Joseph having received his little remainder of wages, and 
having stript off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and 
breeches of one of the servants (for he was so beloved in the 
family, that they would all have lent him anything) : and, 
being told by Peter that he must not stay a moment longer 
in the house than was necessary to pack up his linen, which 
he easily did in a very narrow compass, he took a melancholy 
leave of his fellow-servants, and set out at seven in the 
evening. 

He had proceeded the length of two or three streets, before 

3i 


4 


THE ADVENTURES OF 

he absolutely determined with himself whether he should 
leave the town that night, or, procuring a lodging, wait till 
the morning. At last, the moon shining very bright helped 
him to come to a resolution of beginning his journey immedi¬ 
ately, to which likewise he had some other inducements; which 
the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot possibly guess, 
till we have given him those hints which it may be now proper 
to open. 


CHAPTER XI. 

OF SEVERAL NEW MATTERS NOT EXPECTED. 

I T is an observation sometimes made, that to indicate our 
idea of a simple fellow, we say, he is easily to be seen 
through: nor do I believe it a more improper denotation of a 
simple book. Instead of applying this to any particular per¬ 
formance, we choose rather to remark the contrary in this 
history, where the scene opens itself by small degrees; and he 
is a sagacious reader who can see two chapters before him. 

For this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a matter 
which now seems necessary to be explained; since it may be 
wondered at, first, that Joseph made such extraordinary haste 
out of town, which hath been already shown; and secondly, 
which will be now shown, that, instead of proceeding to the 
habitation of his father and mother, or to his beloved sister 
Pamela, he chose rather to set out full speed to the Lady 
Booby’s country-seat, which he had left on his journey to 
London. 

Be it known, then, that in the same parish where this seat 
stood there lived a young girl whom Joseph (though the best 
of sons and brothers) longed more impatiently to see than 
his parents or his sister. She was a poor girl, who had for¬ 
merly been bred up in Sir John’s family; whence, a little 
before the journey to London, she had been discarded by Mrs 
Slipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty: for I never 
could find any other reason. 

This young creature (who now lived with a farmer in the 

32 




JOSEPH ANDREWS 


parish) had been always beloved by Joseph, and returned his 
affection. She was two years only younger than our hero. 
They had been acquainted from their infancy, and had con¬ 
ceived a very early liking for each other; which had grown 
to such a degree of affection, that Mr Adams had with much 
ado prevented them from marrying, and persuaded them to 
wait till a few years’ service and thrift had a little improved 
their experience, and enabled them to live comfortably to¬ 
gether. 

They followed this good man’s advice, as indeed his word 
was little less that a law in his parish; for as he had shown 
his parishioners, by an uniform behaviour of thirty-five years’ 
duration, that he had their good entirely at heart, so they 
consulted him on every occasion, and very seldom acted con¬ 
trary to his opinion. 

Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting 
between these two lovers. A thousand sighs heaved the bosom 
of Joseph, a thousand tears distilled from the lovely eyes of 
Fanny (for that was her name). Though her modesty would 
only suffer her to admit his eager kisses, her violent love 
made her more than passive in his embraces; and she often 
pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which, though 
perhaps it would not have squeezed an insect to death, caused 
more emotion in the heart of Joseph than the closest Cornish 
hug could have done. 

The reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should, 
during a twelvemonth’s absence, never converse with one 
another: indeed, there was but one reason which did or could 
have prevented them; and this was, that poor Fanny could 
neither write nor read: nor could she be prevailed upon to 
transmit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion by 
the hands of an amanuensis. 

They contented themselves therefore with frequent inquir¬ 
ies after each other’s health, with a mutual confidence in each 
other’s fidelity, and the prospect of their future happiness. 

Having explained these matters to our reader, and, as far 
as possible, satisfied all his doubts, f we return to honest Jo¬ 
seph, whom we left just set out on his travels by the light of 
the moon. 

Those who have read any romance or poetry, ancient or 


4 


THE ADVENTURES OF 

modern, must have been informed that love hath wings: by 
which they are not to understand, as some young ladies by 
mistake have done, that a lover can fly; the writers, by this 
ingenious allegory, intending to insinuate no more than that 
lovers do not march like horse-guards; in short, that they 
put the best leg foremost; which our lusty youth, who could 
walk with any man, did so heartily on this occasion, that 
within four hours he reached a famous house of hospitality 
well known to the western traveller. It presents you a lion 
on the sign-post: and the master, who was christened Timo- 
theus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some have conceived 
that he hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he 
doth in countenance greatly resemble that magnanimous beast, 
though his disposition savours more of the sweetness of the 
lamb. He is a person well received among all sorts of men, 
being qualified to render himself agreeable to any; as he is 
well versed in history and politics, hath a smattering in law 
and divinity, cracks a good jest, and plays wonderfully well 
on the French horn. 

A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shelter in 
this inn, where he remembered Sir Thomas had dined in his 
way to town. Joseph had no sooner seated himself by the 
kitchen fire than Timotheus, observing his livery, began to 
condole the loss of his late master; who was, he said, his 
very particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he 
had cracked many a merry bottle, ay many a dozen, in his 
time. He then remarked, that all these things were over 
now, all passed, and just as if they had never been; and 
concluded with an excellent observation on the certainty of 
death, which his wife said was indeed very true. A fellow 
now arrived at the same inn with two horses, one of which 
he was leading farther down into the country to meet his 
master; these he put into the stable, and came and took his 
place by Joseph’s side, who immediately knew him to be the 
servant of a neighbouring gentleman, who used to visit at 
their house. 

This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm; for he 
had orders to go twenty miles farther that evening, and 
luckily on the same road which Joseph himself intended to 
take. He, therefore, embraced this opportunity of compli- 

34 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


menting his friend with his master’s horse (notwithstanding 
he had received express commands to the contrary), which 
was readily accepted; and so, after they had drank a loving 
pot, and the storm was over, they set out together. 


CHAPTER XII. 

CONTAINING MANY SURPRISING ADVENTURES WHICH JOSEPH 
ANDREWS MET WITH ON THE ROAD, SCARCE CREDIBLE TO 
THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER TRAVELLED IN A STAGE-COACH. 

N OTHING remarkable happened on the road till their 
arrival at the inn to which the horses were ordered; 
whither they came about two in the morning. The moon then 
shone very bright; and Joseph, making his friend a present of 
a pint of wine, and thanking him for the favour of his horse, 
notwithstanding all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on 
his journey on foot. 

He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hope 
of shortly seeing his beloved Fanny, when he was met by 
two fellows in a narrow lane, and ordered to stand and de¬ 
liver. He readily gave them all the money he had, which 
was somewhat less than two pounds; and told them he hoped 
they would be so generous as to return him a few shillings, 
to defray his charges on his way home. 

One of the ruffians answered with an oath, “ Yes, we’ll 
give you something presently: but first strip and be d—n’d 
to you.”—“ Strip,” cried the other, “ or I’ll blow your brains 
to the devil.” Joseph, remembering that he had borrowed 
his coat and breeches of a friend, and that he should be 
ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them, re¬ 
plied, he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which 
were not worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. 
“ You are cold, are you, you rascal ? ” said one of the rob¬ 
bers : “ I’ll warm you with a vengeance; ” and, damning his 
eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; which he had no sooner 
done than the other levelled a blow at him with his stick, 
which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with 

35 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


his, and returned the favour so successfully on his adversary, 
that he laid him sprawling at his feet, and at the same in¬ 
stant received a blow from behind, with the butt end of a 
pistol, from the other villain, which felled him to the ground, 
and totally deprived him of his senses. 

The thief who had been knocked down had now recovered 
himself; and both together fell to belabouring poor Joseph 
with their sticks, till they were convinced they had put an end 
to his miserable being: they then stripped him entirely naked, 
threw him into a ditch, and departed with their booty. 

The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just be¬ 
gan to recover his senses as a stage-coach came by. The 
postilion, hearing a man’s groans, stopt his horses, and told 
the coachman he was certain there was a dead man lying in 
the ditch, for he heard him groan. “ Go on, sirrah,” says the 
coachman; “ we are confounded late, and have no time to 
look after dead men.” A lady, who heard what the postilion 
said, and likewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coach¬ 
man to stop and see what was the matter. Upon which he 
bid the postilion alight, and look into the ditch. He did so, 
and returned, that there was a man sitting upright, as naked 
as ever he was born.—“ O J—sus ! ” cried the lady; “ a 
naked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave him.” Upon 
this the gentlemen got out of the coach; and Joseph begged 
them to have mercy upon him: for that he had been robbed 
and almost beaten to death. “ Robbed! ” cries an old gen¬ 
tleman : “ let us make all the haste imaginable, or we shall 
be robbed too.” A young man who belonged to the law an¬ 
swered, he wished they had passed by without taking any 
notice; but that now they might be proved to have been last 
in his company; if he should die they might be called to 
some account for his murder. He therefore thought it ad¬ 
visable to save the poor creature’s life, for their own sakes, if 
possible; at least, if he died, to prevent the jury’s finding 
that they fled for it. He was therefore of opinion to take 
the man into the coach, and carry him to the next inn. 
The lady insisted, that he should not come into the coach. 
That if they lifted him in, she would herself .alight: for she 
had rather stay in that place to all eternity than ride with a 
naked man. The coachman objected, that he could not svffer 

3 6 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


him to be taken in unless somebody would pay a shilling for 
his carriage the four miles. Which the two gentlemen refused 
to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief hap¬ 
pening to himself, if the wretch was left behind in that con¬ 
dition, saying no man could be too cautious in these matters, 
and that he remembered very extraordinary cases in the books, 
threatened the coachman, and bid him deny taking him up at 
his peril; for that, if he died, he should be indicted for his 
murder; and if he lived, and brought an action against him, 
he would willingly take a brief in it. These words had a 
sensible effect on the coachman, who was well acquainted with 
the person who spoke them; and the old gentleman above 
mentioned, thinking the naked man would afford him frequent 
opportunities of showing his wit to the lady, offered to join 
with the company in giving a mug of beer for his fare; till, 
partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the 
promises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with 
compassion at the poor creature’s condition, who stood bleed¬ 
ing and shivering with the cold, he at length agreed; and Jo¬ 
seph was now advancing to the coach, where, seeing the lady, 
who held the sticks of her fan before her eyes, he abso¬ 
lutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, unless he was 
furnished with sufficient covering to prevent giving the least 
offence to decency,—so perfectly modest was this young man; 
such mighty effects had the spotless example of the amiable 
Pamela, and the excellent sermons of Mr Adams, wrought 
upon him. 

Though there were several great-coats about the coach, it 
was not easy to get over this difficulty which Joseph had 
started. The two gentlemen complained they were cold, 
and could not spare a rag; the man of wit saying, with a 
laugh, that charity began at home; and the coachman, who 
had two great-coats spread under him, refused to lend either, 
lest they should be made bloody: the lady’s footman desired 
to be excused for the same reason, which the lady herself, 
notwithstanding her abhorrence of a naked man, approved: 
and it is more than probable poor Joseph, who obstinately 
adhered to his modest resolution, must have perished, unless 
the postilion (a lad who hath been since transported for rob¬ 
bing a henroost) had voluntarily stript off a great coat, his 

37 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


only garment, at the same time swearing a great oath (for 
which he was rebuked by the passengers), that he would 
rather ride in his shirt all his life than suffer a fellow-creature 
to lie in so miserable a condition. 

Joseph, having put on the great-coat, was lifted into the 
coach, which now proceeded on its journey. He declared 
himself almost dead with the cold, which gave the man of 
wit an occasion to ask the lady if she could not accommo¬ 
date him with a dram. She answered, with some resent¬ 
ment, she wondered at his asking her such a question; but 
assured him she never tasted any such thing. 

The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the 
robbery, when the coach stopt, and one of the ruffians, put¬ 
ting a pistol in, demanded their money of the passengers, 
who readily gave it them; and the lady, in her fright, de¬ 
livered up a little silver bottle, of about a half-pint size, which 
the rogue, clapping it to his mouth, and drinking her health, 
declared, held some of the best Nantes he had ever tasted: 
this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mis¬ 
take of her maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the 
bottle with Hungary-water. 

As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, 
it seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed 
the company, that if it had been daylight, and he could have 
come at hi§ pistols, he would not have submitted to the rob¬ 
bery : he likewise set forth that he had often met highwaymen 
when he travelled on horseback, but none ever durst attack 
him; concluding that, if he had not been more afraid for the 
lady than for himself, he should not have now parted with 
his money so easily. 

As wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty 
pockets, so the gentleman whose ingenuity we have above 
remarked, as soon as he had parted with his money, began 
to grow wonderfully facetious. He made frequent allusions 
to Adam and Eve, and said many excellent things on figs 
and fig-leaves; which perhaps gave more offence to Joseph 
than to any other in the company. 

The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests without 
departing from his profession. He said, if Joseph and the 
lady were alone, he would be more capable of making a con- . 

38 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


veyance to her, as his affairs were not fettered with any in¬ 
cumbrance; he’d warrant he soon suffered a recovery by a 
writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in 
tail; that, for his own part, he would engage to make so firm 
a settlement in a coach, that there should be no danger of an 
ejectment; with an inundation of the like gibberish, which 
he continued to vent till the coach arrived at an inn, where 
one servant-maid only was up, in readiness to attend the 
coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a dram. Jo¬ 
seph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed pre¬ 
pared for him, which the maid readily promised to perform; 
and, being a good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as 
the lady had been, she clapt a large fagot on the fire, and, 
furnishing Joseph with a great-coat belonging to one of the 
hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm himself whilst 
she made his bed. The coachman, in the mean time, took 
an opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few 
doors; after which, he reminded his passengers how late 
they were, and, after they had taken leave of Joseph, hurried 
them off as fast as he could. 

The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use 
her interest to borrow him a shirt; but imagining, as she 
afterwards said, by his being so bloody, that he must be a 
dead man, she ran with all speed to hasten the surgeon, who 
was more than half drest, apprehending that the coach had 
been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon 
as the wench had informed him at his window that it was a 
poor foot-passenger who had been stripped of all he had, and 
almost murdered, he chid her for disturbing him so early, 
slipped off his clothes again, and very quietly returned to bed 
and to sleeo. 

Aurora now began to show her blooming cheeks over the 
hills, whdst ten millions of feathered songsters, in jocund 
chorus, repeated odes a thousand times sweeter than those of 
our laureat, and sung both the day and the song; when the 
master of the inn, Mr Tow-wouse, arose, and, learning from 
his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of his 
poor naked guest, he shook his head and cried, “ good-lack- 
a-day! ” and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own 
‘ shirts. 


39 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


Mrs Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her 
arms in vain to fold her departed husband, when the maid 
entered the room. “ Who’s there ? Betty ? ”—“ Yes, ma¬ 
dam.”—“Where’s your master?”—“He’s without, madam; 
he hath sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who 
hath been robbed and murdered.”—“ Touch one if you dare, 
you slut,” said Mrs Tow-wouse: “ your master is a pretty 
sort of a man, to take in naked vagabonds, and clothe them 
with his own clothes. I shall have no such doings. If you 
offer to touch anything, I’ll throw the chamber-pot at your 
head. Go, send your master to me.”—“ Yes, madam,” an¬ 
swered Betty. As soon as he came in, she thus began: “ What 
the devil do you mean by this, Mr Tow-wouse? Am I to 
buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby rascals ? ”—“ My dear,” 
said Mr Tow-wouse, “ this is a poor wretch.”—“ Yes,” says 
she, “ I know it is a poor wretch; but what the devil have 
we to do with poor wretches ? The lav/ makes us provide for 
too many already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches 
in red coats shortly.”—“ My dear,” cries Tow-wouse, “ this 
man hath been robbed of all he hath.”—“ Well then,” said 
she, “ where’s his money to pay his reckoning ? Why doth 
not such a fellow go to an alehouse? I shall send him pack¬ 
ing as soon as I am up, I assure you.”—“ My dear,” said he, 
“ common charity won’t suffer you to do that.” “ Common 
charity, a f—t! ” says she, “ common charity teaches us to 
provide for ourselves and our families; and I and mine won’t 
be ruined by your charity, I assure you.”—“ Well,” says he, 
“ my dear, do as you will, when you are up; you know I 
never contradict you.”—“ No,” says she; “ if the devil was to 
contradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold him.” 

With such like discourses they consumed near half an hour, 
whilst Betty provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one 
of her sweethearts, and put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon 
had likewise at last visited him, and washed and drest his 
wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr Tow-wouse 
that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he 
scarce saw any hopes of his recovery. “ Here’s a pretty kettle 
of fish,” cries Mrs Tow-wouse, “ you have brought upon us! 
We are like to have a funeral at our own expense.” Tow- 
wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, would have give 

40 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any other 
house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his 
guest) answered, “ My dear, I am not to blame; he was 
brought hither by the stage-coach, and Betty had put him to 
bed before I was stirring.”—“ I’ll Betty her,” says she.— 
At which, with half her garments on, the other half under 
her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty, 
whilst Tow-wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor 
Joseph, and inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy 
affair. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

WHAT HAPPENED TO JOSEPH DURING HIS SICKNESS AT THE 
INN, WITH THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE BETWEEN HIM AND MR 
BARNABAS, THE PARSON OF THE PARISH. 

AS soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history 
JTjL of the robbery, together with a short account of himself, 
and his intended journey, he asked the surgeon if he appre¬ 
hended him to be in any danger: to which the surgeon very 
honestly answered, he feared he was; for that his pulse was 
very exalted and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more 
than symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him. Joseph, 
fetching a deep sigh, cried, “ Poor Fanny, I would I could 
have lived to see thee! but God’s will be done.” 

The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly 
affairs to settle, that he would do it as soon as possible; for, 
though he hoped he might recover, yet he thought himself 
obliged to acquaint him he was in great danger; and if the 
malign concoction of his humours should cause a suscitation 
of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to 
make his will. Joseph answered, that it was impossible for 
any creature in the universe to be in a poorer condition than 
himself; for since the robbery he had not one thing of any 
kind whatever which he could call his own. “ I had,” said he, 
“ a poor little piece of gold, which they took away, that would 
'-•ave been a comfort to me in all my afflictions; but surely, 

4i 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have thy 
dear image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence.” 

Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they 
were refused him; and he was advised to use all his endea¬ 
vours to compose himself. They then left him; and Mr Tow- 
wouse sent to a clergyman to come and administer his good 
offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since the surgeon despaired 
of making any successful applications to his body. 

Mr Barnabas (for that was the clergyman’s name) came as 
soon as sent for; and, having first drank a dish of tea with 
the landlady, and afterwards a bowl of punch with the land¬ 
lord, he walked up to the room where Joseph lay; but, 
finding him asleep, returned to take the other sneaker; which 
when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the chamber- 
door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talking to him¬ 
self in the following manner: 

“ O most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose 
example could alone enable me to withstand all the tempta¬ 
tions of riches and beauty, and to preserve my virtue pure and 
chaste for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it had pleased 
Heaven that I should ever have come unto them. What 
riches, or honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the 
loss of innocence? Doth not that alone afford us more con¬ 
solation than all worldly acquisitions? What but innocence 
and virtue could give any comfort to such a miserable wretch 
as I am? Yet these can make me prefer this sick and pain¬ 
ful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my lady’s. 
These can make me face death without fear; and though I 
love my Fanny more than ever man loved a woman, these 
can teach me to resign myself to the Divine will without re¬ 
pining. O, thou delightful charming creature! if Heaven 
had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state 
would have been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in 
the lowest cottage without envying the palaces, the dainties, 
or the riches of any man breathing. But I must leave thee, 
leave thee for ever, my dearest angel! I must think of an¬ 
other world; and I heartily pray thou may’st meet comfort 
in this.”—Barnabas thought he had heard enough, so down¬ 
stairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no 
service; for that he was very light-headed, and had utte^ 

42 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

nothing but a rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in 
the room. 

The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his 
patient in a higher fever, as he said, than when he left him, 
though not delirious; for, notwithstanding Mr Barnabas’s 
opinion, he had not been once out of his senses since his 
arrival at the inn. 

Mr Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty 
prevailed on to make another visit. As soon as he entered 
the room he told Joseph he was come to pray by him, and 
to prepare him for another world: in the first place, there¬ 
fore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins. Joseph an¬ 
swered he hoped he had; but there was one thing which he 
knew not whether he should call a sin; if it was, he feared 
he should die in the commission of it; and that was, the regret 
of parting with a young woman whom he loved as tenderly 
as he did his heart-strings. Barnabas bade him be assured 
that any repining at the Divine will was one of the greatest 
sins he could commit; that he ought to forget all carnal affec¬ 
tions, and think of better things. Joseph said, that neither 
in this world nor the next he could forget his Fanny; and 
that the thought, however grievous, of parting from her for 
ever, was not half so tormenting as the fear of what she 
would suffer when she knew his misfortune. Barnabas said, 
that such fears argued a diffidence and despondence very 
criminal; that he must divest himself of all human passions, 
and fix his heart above. Joseph answered, that was what 
he desired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would 
enable him to accomplish it. Barnabas replied, that must be 
done by grace. Joseph besought him to discover how he 
might attain it. Barnabas answered, by prayer and faith. He 
then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of the thieves. 
Joseph answered, he feared that was more than he could do ; 
for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they 
were taken. “ That,” cries Barnabas, “ is for the sake of jus¬ 
tice.” —“ Yes,” said Joseph, “ but if I was to meet them again, 
I am afraid I should attack them, and kill them too, if I could.” 
—“ Doubtless,” answered Barnabas, “ it is lawful to kill a 
thief; but can you say you forgive them as a Christian 
ought ? ” Joseph desired to know what that forgiveness was. 

43 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


“ That is,” answered Barnabas, “ to forgive them as—as—it 
is to forgive them as—in short, it is to forgive them as a 
Christian.” Joseph replied, he forgave them as much as he 
could.—“ Well, well,” said Barnabas, “ that will do.” He 
then demanded of him, if he remembered any more sins un¬ 
repented of; and if he did, he desired him to make haste and 
repent of them as fast as he could, that they might repeat over 
a few prayers together. Joseph answered, he could not recol¬ 
lect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those 
he had committed he was sincerely sorry for. Barnabas said 
that was enough, and then proceeded to prayer with all the 
expedition lie was master of, some company then waiting for 
him below in the parlour, where the ingredients for punch 
were all in readiness; but no one would squeeze the oranges 
till he came. 

Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little tea; 
which Barnabas reported to Mrs Tow-wouse, who answered, 
she had just done drinking it, and could not be slopping all 
day; but ordered Betty to carry him up some small beer. 

Betty obeyed her mistress’s commands; but Joseph, as soon 
as he had tasted it, said, he feared it would increase his fever, 
and that he longed very much for tea; to which the good- 
natured Betty answered, he should have tea, if there was any 
in the land; she accordingly went and bought him some her¬ 
self, and attended him with it; where we will leave her and 
Joseph together for some time, to entertain the reader with 
other matters. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

BEING VERY FULL OF ADVENTURES WHICH SUCCEEDED EACH 
OTHER AT THE END. 

I T was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person 
rode into the inn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, 
went directly into the kitchen, and, having called for a pipe 
of tobacco, took his place by the fireside, where several other 
persons were likewise assembled. 

The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was 
44 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


committed the night before, and on the poor wretch who lay 
above in the dreadful condition in which we have already 
seen him. Mrs Tow-wouse said, she wondered what the devil 
Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to her house, 
when there were so many alehouses on the road proper for 
their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the parish 
should be at the expense of the funeral. She added, no¬ 
thing would serve the fellow’s turn but tea, she would assure 
him. Betty, who was just returned from her charitable office, 
answered, she believed he was a gentleman, for she never 
saw a finer skin in her life. “ Pox on his skin! ” replied Mrs 
Tow-wouse, “ I suppose that is all we are like to have for 
the reckoning. I desire no such gentlemen should ever call 
at the Dragon ” (which it seems was the sign of the inn). 

The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of 
emotion at the distress of this poor creature, whom he ob¬ 
served to be fallen not into the most compassionate hands. 
And indeed, if Mrs Tow-wouse had given no utterance to the 
sweetness of her temper, nature had taken such pains in her 
countenance, that Hogarth himself never gave more expres¬ 
sion to a picture. 

Her person was short, thin, and crooked. Her forehead 
projected in the middle, and thence descended in a declivity 
to the top of her nose, which was sharp and red, and would 
have hung over her lips, had not nature turned up the end 
of it. Her lips were two bits of skin, which, whenever she 
spoke, she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked; 
and at the upper end of that skin which composed her cheeks, 
stood two bones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. 
Add to this a voice most wonderfully adapted to the senti¬ 
ments it was to convey, being both loud and hoarse. 

It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had conceived, 
a greater dislike for his landlady or compassion for her un¬ 
happy guest. He inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who 
was now come into the kitchen, whether he had any hopes of 
his recovery? He begged him to use all possible means 
towards it, telling him, it was the duty of men of all pro¬ 
fessions to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor 
and necessitous. The surgeon answered, he should take 
proper care; but he defied all the surgeons in London to do 

45 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


him any good.—“ Pray, sir,” said the gentleman, “ what are 
his wounds ? ”—“ Why, do you know anything of wounds ? ” 
says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs Tow-wouse). “ Sir, 
I have a small smattering in surgery,” answered the gentle¬ 
man. “ A smattering,—ho, ho, ho! ” said the surgeon; “ I 
believe it is a smattering indeed.” 

The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doc¬ 
tor, who was what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentle¬ 
man. 

He began therefore with an air of triumph: “ I suppose, 
sir, you have travelled? ”—“ No, really, sir,” said the gentle¬ 
man. “ Ho! then you have practised in the hospitals per¬ 
haps? ”—“ No, sir.”—•“ Hum! not that neither? Whence, sir, 
then, if I may be so bold to inquire, have you got your 
knowledge in surgery ? ”—“ Sir,” answered the gentleman, “ I 
do not pretend to much; but the little I know I have from 
books.”—“ Books! ” cries the doctor. “ What, I suppose you 
have read Galen and Hippocrates! ”—“ No, sir,” said the gen¬ 
tleman. “ How! you understand surgery,” answers the doc¬ 
tor, “and not read Galen and Hippocrates?”—“Sir,” cries 
the other, “ I believe there are many surgeons who have never 
read these authors.”—“ I believe so too,” says the doctor, 
“ more shame for them; but, thanks to my education, I have 
them by heart, and very seldom go without them both in my 
pocket.”—“ They are pretty large books,” said the gentleman. 
“ Aye,” said the doctor, “ I believe I know how large they 
are better than you.” (At which he fell a winking, and the 
whole company burst into a laugh.) 

The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman, if 
he did not understand physic as well as surgery. “ Rather 
better,” answered the gentleman. “ Aye, like enough,” cries 
the doctor with a wink. “ Why, I know a little of physic 
too.”—“ I wish I knew half so much,” said Tow-wouse, “ I’d 
never wear an apron again.”—“ Why, I believe, landlord,” 
cries the doctor, “ there are few men, though I say it, within 
twelve miles of the place, that handle a fever better.— Veni- 
ente accurrite morbo : that is my method. I suppose, brother, 
you understand Latin ? ”—“ A little,” says the gentleman. 
“Ay, and Greek now, I’ll warrant you: Ton dapomibominos 
poludosboio thalasses. But I have almost forgot these things: 

46 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


I could have repeated Homer by heart once.”- “ I fags! 

the gentleman has caught a traitor,” says Mrs Tow-wouse; 
at which they all fell a laughing. 

The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, 
very contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, 
which he did with no small satisfaction; and, having suffi¬ 
ciently sounded his depth, told him, he was thoroughly con¬ 
vinced of his great learning and abilities; and that he would 
be obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion of his 
patient’s case above-stairs. “ Sir,” says the doctor, “ his case 
is that of a dead man. The contusion on his head has perfor¬ 
ated the internal membrane of the occiput, and divellicated 
that radical small minute invisible nerve which coheres to the 
pericranium; and this was attended with a fever at first symp¬ 
tomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at length grown deliruus, 
or delirious, as the vulgar express it.” 

He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty 
noise interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbour¬ 
hood had taken one of the thieves, and were bringing him 
into the inn. Betty ran up-stairs with this news to Joseph, 
who begged they might search for a little piece of broken 
gold, which had a ribbon tied to it, and which he could swear 
to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe. 

Notwithstanding the fellow’s persisting in his innocence, 
the mob were very busy in searching him, and presently, 
among other things, pulled out the piece of gold just men¬ 
tioned ; which Betty no sooner saw than she laid violent hands 
on it, and conveyed it up to Joseph, who received it with rap¬ 
tures of joy, and, hugging it in his bosom, declared he could 
now die contented. 

Within a few minutes afterwards came in some other fel¬ 
lows, with a bundle which they had found in a ditch, and 
which was indeed the clothes which had been stripped off 
from Joseph, and the other things they had taken from him. 

The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he declared he 
knew the livery; and, if it had been taken from the poor 
creature above-stairs, desired he might see him; for that he 
was very well acquainted with the family to whom that livery 
belonged. 

He was accordingly conducted up by Betty; but what, 
47 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


reader, was the surprize on both sides, when he saw Joseph 
was the person in bed, and when Joseph discovered the face 
of his good friend Mr Abraham Adams! 

It would be impertinent to insert a discourse which chiefly 
turned on the relation of matters already well known to the 
reader; for, as soon as the curate had satisfied Joseph con¬ 
cerning the perfect health of his Fanny, he was on his side 
very inquisitive into all the particulars which had produced 
this unfortunate accident. 

To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety 
of company were now assembled from all the rooms of the 
house, as well as the neighbourhood: so much delight do men 
take in contemplating the countenance of a thief. 

Mr Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure at 
seeing so large an assembly; who would, he hoped, shortly 
adjourn into several apartments, in order to discourse over 
the robbery, and drink a health to all honest men. But Mrs 
Tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things 
a little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the 
fellow into her house; telling her husband, they were very 
likely to thrive who kept a house of entertainment for beggars 
and thieves. 

The mob had now finished their search, and could find 
nothing about the captive likely to prove any evidence; for 
as to the clothes, though the mob were very well satisfied 
with that proof, yet, as the surgeon observed, they could not 
convict him, because they were not found in his custody; to 
which Barnabas agreed, and added that these were bona 
waviata, and belonged to the lord of the manor. 

“ How/’ says the surgeon, “ do you say these goods belong 
to the lord of the manor? ”—“ I do,” cried Barnabas. “ Then 
I deny it,” says the surgeon: “ what can the lord of the manor 
have to do in the case? Will any one attempt to persuade 
me that what a man finds is not his own ? ”—“ I have heard,” 
says an old fellow in the corner, “ justice Wise-one say, that, 
if every man had his right, whatever is found belongs to the 
king of London.”—“ That may be true,” says Barnabas, “ in 
some sense; for the law makes a difference between things 
stolen and things found; for a thing may be stolen that 
never is found, and a thing may be found that never was 

48 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


stolen. Now, goods that are both stolen and found are 
waviata; and they belong to the lord of the manor.”—“ So 
the lord of the manor is the receiver of stolen goods,” says 
the doctor; at which there was an universal laugh, being first 
begun by himself. 

While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had al¬ 
most (as there was no evidence against him) brought over 
Barnabas, the surgeon, Tow-wouse, and several others to his 
side, Betty informed them that they had overlooked a little 
piece of gold, which she had carried up to the man in bed, 
and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, aye, 
amongst ten thousand. This immediately turned the scale 
against the prisoner, and every one now concluded him 
guilty. It was resolved, therefore, to keep him secured that 
night, and early in the morning to carry him before a justice. 


CHAPTER XV. 

SHOWING HOW MRS TOW-WOUSE WAS A LITTLE MOLLIFIED; 
AND HOW OFFICIOUS MR BARNABAS AND THE SURGEON WERE 
TO PROSECUTE THE THIEF : WITH A DISSERTATION ACCOUNT¬ 
ING FOR THEIR ZEAL, AND THAT OF MANY OTHER PERSONS 
NOT MENTIONED IN THIS HISTORY. 

B ETTY told her mistress she believed the man in bed was 
a greater man than they took him for; for, besides the 
extreme whiteness of his skin, and the softness of his hands, 
she observed a very great familiarity between the gentleman 
and him; and added, she was certain they were intimate ac¬ 
quaintance, if not relations. 

This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs Tow-wouse’s 
countenance. She said, God forbid she should not discharge 
the duty of a Christian, since the poor gentleman was brought 
to her house. She had a natural antipathy to vagabonds; 
but could pity the misfortunes of a Christian as soon as an¬ 
other. Tow-wouse said, “ If the traveller be a gentleman, 
though he hath no money about him now, we shall most 
likely be paid hereafter; so you may begin to score when- 
4 49 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


ever you will.” Mrs Tow-wouse answered, “ Hold your sim¬ 
ple tongue, and don’t instruct me in my business. I am sure 
I am sorry for the gentleman’s misfortune with all my heart; 
and I hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously 
will be hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid 
he should want any thing in my house.” 

Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy 
themselves concerning the piece of gold; Joseph was with 
difficulty prevailed upon to show it them, but would by no en¬ 
treaties be brought to deliver it out of his own possession. 
He however attested this to be the same which had been taken 
from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on 
the thief. 

The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this 
gold before the justice; for as to carrying Joseph himself, it 
seemed impossible; nor was there any great likelihood of ob¬ 
taining it from him, for he had fastened it with a ribband to 
his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing but irresistible force 
should ever separate them; in which resolution, Mr Adams, 
clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox, de¬ 
clared he would support him. 

A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not 
very necessary to be related here; after which the surgeon 
dressed Mr Joseph’s head, still persisting in the imminent 
danger in which his patient lay, but concluding, with a very 
important look, that he began to have some hopes; that he 
should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and would 
see him in the morning. After which Barnabas and he de¬ 
parted, and left Mr Joseph and Mr Adams together. 

Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey 
which he was making to London, namely, to publish three 
volumes of sermons; being encouraged, as he said, by an 
advertisement lately set forth by a society of booksellers, who 
proposed to purchase any copies offered to them, at a price 
to be settled by two persons; but though he imagined he 
should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, 
which his family were in urgent need of, he protested he 
would not leave Joseph in his present condition: finally, he 
told him, he had nine shillings and three pence halfpenny 
in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as he pleased. 

5 ° 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into Jos 
eyes; he declared, he had now a second reason to desire L 
that he might show his gratitude to such a friend. Adarm 
bade him be cheerful; for that he plainly saw the surgeon, 
besides his ignorance, desired to make a merit of curing him, 
though the wounds in his head, he perceived, were by no 
means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and 
doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two. 

These words infused a spirit into Joseph; he said, he found 
himself very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to 
think any of his bones injured, or that he had received any 
harm in his inside, unless that he felt something very odd 
in his stomach; but he knew not whether that might not 
arise from not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four 
hours. Being then asked if he had any inclination to eat, 
he answered in the affirmative. Then parson Adams desired 
him to name what he had the greatest fancy for; whether 
a poached egg, or chicken-broth. He answered, he could eat 
both very well; but that he seemed to have the greatest appe¬ 
tite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage. 

Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he 
had not the least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for 
that evening. He accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, 
I never could with any tolerable certainty discover which; 
after this he was, by Mrs Tow-wouse’s order, conveyed into 
a better bed and equipped with one of her husband’s shirts. 

In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to 
the inn, in order to see the thief conveyed before the justice. 
They had consumed the whole night in debating what mea¬ 
sures they should take to produce the piece of gold in evidence 
against him; for they were both extremely zealous in the 
business, though neither of them were in the least interested 
in the prosecution; neither of them had ever received any 
private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever 
been suspected of loving the public well enough to give them 
a sermon or a dose of physic for nothing. 

To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to ac¬ 
count for this zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish 
was so unfortunate as to have no lawyer in it, there had been 
a constant contention between the two doctors, spiritual and 

5 1 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


jical, concerning their abilities in a science, in whicn, 
neither of them professed it, they had equal pretensions 
to dispute each other’s opinions. These disputes were carried 
on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided 
the parish; Mr Tow-wouse and one half of the neighbours 
inclining to the surgeon, and Mrs Tow-wouse with the other 
half to the parson. The surgeon drew his knowledge from 
those inestimable fountains, called The Attorney’s Pocket 
Companion, and Mr Jacob’s Law-Tables; Barnabas trusted 
entirely to Wood’s Institutes. It happened on this occasion, 
as was pretty frequently the case, that these two learned men 
differed about the sufficiency of evidence; the doctor being of 
opinion that the maid’s oath would convict the prisoner with¬ 
out producing the gold; the parson, e contra, totis viribus. 
To display their parts, therefore, before the justice and the 
parish, was the sole motive which we can discover to this 
zeal which both of them pretended to have for public justice. 

O Vanity! how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy 
operations discerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive man¬ 
kind under different disguises! Sometimes thou dost wear 
the face of pity, sometimes of generosity: nay, thou hast the 
assurance even to put on those glorious ornaments which be¬ 
long only to heroic virtue. Thou odious, deformed monster! 
whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, and poets 
ridiculed; is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for 
an acquaintance in public?—yet, how few will refuse to en¬ 
joy thee in private? nay, thou art the pursuit of most men 
through their lives. The greatest villainies are daily prac¬ 
tised to please thee; nor is the meanest thief below, or the 
greatest hero above, thy notice. Thy embraces are often the 
sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery and the plun¬ 
dered province. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that we 
attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to 
withhold from them what they do. All our passions are thy 
slaves. Avarice itself is often no more than thy handmaid, 
and even Lust thy pimp. The bully Fear, like a coward, flies 
before thee, and Joy and Grief hide their heads in thy presence. 

I know thou wilt think that whilst I abuse thee I court thee, 
and that thy love hath inspired me to write this sarcastical 
panegyric on thee; but thou art deceived; I value thee not 

5 2 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


of a farthing; nor will it give me any pain if thou shouldst 
prevail on the reader to censure this digression as arrant 
nonsense; for know, to thy confusion, that I have introduced 
thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short chap¬ 
ter, and so I return to my history. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE ESCAPE OF THE THIEF. MR ADAMS’S DISAPPOINTMENT. 
THE ARRIVAL OF TWO VERY EXTRAORDINARY PERSONAGES, 
AND THE INTRODUCTION OF PARSON ADAMS TO PARSON BAR¬ 
NABAS. 

B ARNABAS and the surgeon, being returned, as we have 
said, to the inn, in order to convey the thief before the 
justice, were greatly concerned to find a small accident had 
happened, which somewhat disconcerted them; and this was 
no other than the thief’s escape, who had modestly withdrawn 
himself by night, declining all ostentation, and not choosing, 
in imitation of some great men, to distinguish himself at the 
expense of being pointed at. 

When the company had retired the evening before, the 
thief was detained in a room where the constable, and one of 
the young fellows who took him, were planted as his guard. 
About the second watch a general complaint of drought was 
made, both by the prisoner and his keepers. Among whom 
it was at last agreed that the constable should remain on duty, 
and the young fellow call up the tapster; in which disposi¬ 
tion the latter apprehended not the least danger, as the con¬ 
stable was well armed, and could besides easily summon him 
back to his assistance, if the prisoner made the least attempt 
to gain his liberty. 

The young fellow had not long left the room before it came 
into the constable’s head that the prisoner might leap on him 
by surprize, and, thereby preventing him of the use of his 
weapons, especially the long staff in which he chiefly confided, 
might reduce the success of a struggle to an equal chance. 

53 




THE ADVENTURES OF. 


He wisely, therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, slipt out 
of the room himself, and locked the door, waiting without 
with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the unhappy 
prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt to break out. 

But human life, as hath been discovered by some great 
man or other (for I would by no means be understood to 
affect the honour of making any such discovery), very much 
resembles a game of chess; for as in the latter, while a game¬ 
ster is too attentive to secure himself very strongly on one 
side the board, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening on the 
other; so doth it often happen in life, and so did it happen 
on this occasion; for whilst the cautious constable with such 
wonderful sagacity had possessed himself of the door, he most 
unhappily forgot the window. 

The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner per¬ 
ceived this opening than he began to move that way; and, 
finding the passage easy, he took with him the young fellow’s 
hat, and without any ceremony stepped into the street and 
made the best of his way. 

The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong 
beer, was a little surprized to find the constable at the door; 
but much more so when, the door being opened, he perceived 
the prisoner had made his escape, and which way. He threw 
down the beer, and without uttering anything to the consta¬ 
ble except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out of the 
window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being very 
unwilling to lose the reward which he had assured himself of. 

The constable hath not been discharged of suspicion on this 
account; it hath been said that, not being concerned in the 
taking the thief, he could not have been entitled to any 
part of the reward if he had been convicted; that the thief 
had several guineas in his pocket; that it was very unlikely 
he should have been guilty of such an oversight; that his 
pretence for leaving the room was absurd; that it was his 
constant maxim, that a wise man never refused money on 
any conditions; that at every election he always had sold his 
vote to both parties, &c. 

But, notwithstanding these and many other such allegations, 
I am sufficiently convinced of his innocence; having been 
positively assured of it by those who received their inform?^ 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


tions from his own mouth; which, in the opinion of some 
moderns, is the best and indeed only evidence. 

All the family were now up, and with many others assembled 
in the kitchen, where Mr Tow-wouse was in some tribulation; 
the surgeon having declared that by law he was liable to be 
indicted for the thief’s escape, as it was out of his house; he 
was a little comforted, however, by Mr Barnabas’s opinion, 
that as the escape was by night the indictment would not lie. 

Mrs Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words: 
“ Sure never was such a fool as my husband; would any 
other person living have left a man in the custody of such a 
drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom Suckbribe?” (which was 
the constable’s name) ; “ and if he could be indicted without 
any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of it.” 
(Then the bell rung in Joseph’s room.) “ Why Betty, John, 
chamberlain, where the devil are you all? Have you no 
ears, or no conscience; not to tend the sick better ? See what 
the gentleman wants. Why don’t you go yourself, Mr Tow- 
wouse ? But any one may die for you; you have no more 
feeling than a deal board. If a man lived a fortnight in your 
house without spending a penny, you would never put him 
in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea or coffee for break¬ 
fast.” “ Yes, my dear,” cried Tow-wouse. She then asked 
the doctor and Mr Barnabas what morning’s draught they 
chose, who answered, they had a pot of cider, and at the fire; 
which we will leave them merry over, and return to Joseph. 

He had rose pretty early this morning; but, though his 
wounds were far from threatening any danger, he was so 
sore with the bruises, that it was impossible for him to think 
of undertaking a journey yet; Mr Adams, therefore, whose 
stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supper and 
breakfast, and which could not survive that day’s scoring, 
began to consider how it was possible to recruit it. At last he 
cried, he had luckily hit on a sure method, and, though it 
would oblige him to return himself home together with Joseph, 
it mattered not much. He then sent for Tow-wouse, and, 
taking him into another room, told him he wanted to borrow 
three guineas, for which he would put ample security into 
his hands. Tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or ring, or 
lr.ornethmg of double the value, answered, he believed he could 

55 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


furnish him. Upon which Adams, pointing to his saddle-bag, 
told him with a face and voice full of solemnity, that there 
were in that bag no less than nine volumes of manuscript ser¬ 
mons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling was 
worth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the vol¬ 
umes in his hands by way of pledge; not doubting but that he 
would have the honesty to return it on his payment of the 
money; for otherwise he must be a very great loser, seeing 
that every volume would at least bring him ten pounds, as he 
had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in the coun¬ 
try; for, said he, as to my own part, having never yet dealt 
in printing, I do not pretend to ascertain the exact value of 
such things. 

Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, said 
(and not without some truth), that he was no judge of the 
price of such kind of goods; and as for money, he really was 
very short. Adams answered, certainly he would not scruple 
to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly worth 
at least ten. The landlord replied, he did not believe he had 
so much money in the house, and besides, he was to make up 
a sum. He was very confident the books were of much higher 
value, and heartily sorry it did not suit him. He then cried 
out, “ Coming, sir! ” though nobody called; and ran down¬ 
stairs without any fear of breaking his neck. 

Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this disappointment, 
nor knew he what further stratagem to try. He immediately 
applied to his pipe, his constant friend and comfort in his 
afflictions; and, leaning over the rails, he devoted himself to 
meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes of tobacco. 

He had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short 
great coat, which half covered his cassock,—a dress which, 
added to something comical enough in his countenance, com¬ 
posed a figure likely to attract the eyes of those who were not 
over given to observation. 

Whilst he was smoking his pipe in this posture, a coach and 
six, with a numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There 
alighted from the coach a .young fellow and a brace of point¬ 
ers, after which another young fellow leapt from the box, 
and shook the former by the hand ; and both, together with the 
dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr Tow-wouse nto an 

56 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


apartment; whither as they passed, they entertained them¬ 
selves with the following short facetious dialogue:— 

“ You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack! ” says he 
from the coach; “ you had almost overturned us just now.”— 
“ Pox take you! ” says the coachman; “ if I had only broke 
your neck, it would have been saving somebody else the 
trouble; but I should have been sorry for the pointers.”— 
“ Why, you son of a b—,” answered the other, “ if nobody 
could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use.” 
—“ D—n me,” says the coachman, “ I will shoot with you 
five guineas a shot.”—“ You be hanged,” says the other; “ for 
five guineas you shall shoot at my a—.” “ Done,” says the 
coachman; “I’ll pepper you better than ever you was pep¬ 
pered by Jenny Bouncer.”—“ Pepper your grandmother,” 
says the other: “ Here ’s Tow-wouse will let you shoot at 

him for a shilling a-time.”—“ I know his honour better,” cries 
Tow-wouse; “ I never saw a surer shot at a partridge. 

Every man misses now and then; but if I could shoot half as 
well as his honour, I would desire no better livelihood than I 
could get by my gun.”—“ Pox on you,” said the coachman, 
“ you demolish more game now than your head’s worth. 
There’s a bitch, Tow-wouse: by G— she never blinked* a 
bird in her life.”—“ I have a puppy, not a year old, shall 
hunt with her for a hundred,” cries the other gentleman.— 
“ Done,” says the coachman: “ but you *will be pox’d before 
you make the bet.” “ If you have a mind for a bet,” cries the 
coachman, “ I will match my spotted dog with your white 
bitch for a hundred, play or pay.” “ Done,” says the other: 
“ and I’ll run Baldface against Slouch with you for another.” 
—“ No,” cries he from the box; “ but I’ll venture Miss Jenny 
against Baldface, or Hannibal either.”—“ Go to the devil,” 
cries he from the coach: “ I will make every bet your own 
way, to be sure! I will match Hannibal with Slouch for a 
thousand, if you dare; and I say done first.” 

They were now arrived; and the reader will be very con¬ 
tented to leave them, and repair to the kitchen; where Bar¬ 
nabas, the surgeon, and an exciseman were smoking their 
pipes over some cider-and; and where the servants, who 

* To blink is a term used to signify the dog’s passing by a bird 
without pointing at it. 


57 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight, 
were now arrived. 

“ Tom,” cries one of the footmen, “ there’s parson Adams 
smoking his pipe in the gallery.” “ Yes,” says Tom; “I 
pulled off my hat to him, and the parson spoke to me.” 

“ Is the gentleman a clergyman, then? ” says Barnabas (for 
his cassock had been tied up when he first arrived). “Yes, 
sir,” answered the footman; “ and one there be but few like.” 
—“ Aye,” said Barnabas : “ if I had known it sooner, I should 
have desired his company; I would always show a proper 
respect for the cloth: but what say you, doctor, shall we ad¬ 
journ into a room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of 
punch ? ” 

This proposal was immediately agreed to and executed; 
and parson Adams accepting the invitation, much civility 
passed between the two clergymen, who both declared the 
great honour they 'had for the cloth. They had not been 
long together before they entered into a discourse on small 
tithes, which continued a full hour, without the doctor or 
exciseman’s having one opportunity to offer a word. 

It was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and 
the exciseman opened on foreign affairs; but a word un¬ 
luckily dropping from one of them introduced a dissertation 
on the hardships suffered by the inferior clergy; which, after 
a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine volumes 
of sermons on the carpet. 

Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams; he said, the 
age was so wicked, that nobody read sermons. “ Would you 
think it, Mr Adams ? ” said he, “ I once intended to print a 
volume of sermons myself, and they had the approbation of 
two or three bishops; but what do you think a bookseller 
offered me?”—“Twelve guineas perhaps,” cried Adams, 
“ Not twelve pence, I assure you,” answered Barnabas: “ nay, 
the dog refused me a concordance in exchange. At last I 
offered to give him the printing them, for the sake of dedi¬ 
cating them to that very gentleman who just now drove his 
own coach into the inn; and, I assure you, he had the im¬ 
pudence to refuse my offer; by which means I lost a good 
living, that was afterward given away in exchange for a 
pointer, to one who—but I will not say anything against the 

58 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


cloth. So you may guess, Mr Adams, what you are to ex¬ 
pect ; for if sermons would have gone down, I believe—I 
will not be vain; but to be concise with you, three bishops 
said they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there 
are a pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold 
yet.”—“ Pray, sir,” said Adams, “ to what do you think the 
numbers may amount?”—“Sir,” answered Barnabas, “a 
bookseller told me, he believed five thousand volumes at 
least.”—“ Five thousand! ” quoth the surgeon: “ What can 
they be writ upon ? I remember, when I was a boy, I used to 
read one of Tillotson’s sermons; and, I am sure, if a man prac¬ 
tised half so much as is in one of those sermons, he will go to 
heaven.”—“ Doctor,” cried Barnabas, “ you have a profane 
way of talking, for which I must reprove you. A man can 
never have his duty too frequently inculcated in him. And 
as for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said 
things very well; but comparisons are odious; another man 

may write as well as he-1 believe there are some of my 

sermons,”-and then he applied the candle to his pipe.— 

“ And I believe there are some of my discourses,” cries 
Adams, “ which the bishops would not think totally un¬ 
worthy of being printed; and I have been informed I might 
procure a very large sum (indeed an immense one) on them.” 
—“ I doubt that,” answered Barnabas: “ however, if you de¬ 
sire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell 
them by advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman 
lately deceased, all warranted originals, and never printed. 
And now I think of it, I should be obliged to you, if there 
be ever a funeral one among them, to lend it me; for' I am 
this very day to preach a funeral sermon, for which I have 
not penned a line, though I am to have a double price.” 
Adams answered he had but one, which he feared would 
not serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a 
magistrate, who had exerted himself very singularly in the 
preservation of the morality of his neighbours, insomuch that 
he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman in the parish where 
he lived.—“ No,” replied Barnabas, “ that will not do quite 
so well; for the deceased, upon whose virtues I am to ha¬ 
rangue, was a little too much addicted to liquor, and publicly 
kept a mistress.-1 believe I must take a common sermon, 


59 





THE ADVENTURES OF 


and trust to my memory to introduce something handsome 
on him.”—“ To your invention rather,” said the doctor: 
“ your memory will be apter to put you out; for no man 
living remembers anything good of him.” 

With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the 
bowl of punch, paid their reckoning, and separated: Adams 
and the doctor went up to Joseph, parson Barnabas departed 
to celebrate the aforesaid deceased, and the exciseman de¬ 
scended into the cellar to gauge the vessels. 

Joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of mutton, and 
waited for Mr Adams, when he and the doctor came in. 
The doctor having felt his pulse and examined his wounds, 
declared him much better, which he imputed to that sana¬ 
tive soporiferous draught, a medicine whose virtues, he said, 
were never to be sufficiently extolled. And great indeed they 
must be, if Joseph was so much indebted to them as the doc¬ 
tor imagined; since nothing more than those effluvia which 
escaped the cork could have contributed to his recovery; for 
the medicine had stood untouched in the window ever since 
its arrival. 

Joseph passed that day, and the three following, with his 
friend Adams, in which nothing so remarkable happened as 
the swift progress of his recovery. As he had an excellent 
habit of body, his wounds were now almost healed; and his 
bruises gave him so little uneasiness, that he pressed Mr 
Adams to let him depart; told him he should never be able 
to return sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged 
that he might no longer delay his journey to London. 

Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he conceived it, 
of Mr Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such he thought it) of 
Mr Barnabas, had great expectations from his sermons: see¬ 
ing therefore Joseph in so good a way, he told him he would 
agree to his setting out the next morning in the stage-coach, 
that he believed he should have sufficient, after the reckoning 
paid, to procure him one day’s conveyance in it, and after¬ 
wards he would be able to get on on foot, or might be fa¬ 
voured with a lift in some neighbour’s waggon, especially as 
there was then to be a fair in the town whither the coach 
would carry him, to which numbers from his parish resorted. 
—And as to himself, he agreed to proceed to the great city. 

60 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a fat, fair, 
short person rode in, and, alighting from his horse, went 
directly up to Barnabas, who was smoking his pipe on a 
bench. The parson and the stranger shook one another very 
lovingly by the hand, and went into a room together. 

The evening now coming on, Joseph retired to his cham¬ 
ber, whither the good Adams accompanied him, and took this 
opportunity to expatiate on the great mercies God had lately 
shown him, of which he ought not only to have the deepest 
inward sense, but likewise to express outward thankfulness 
for them. They therefore fell both on their knees, and spent 
a considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving. 

They had just finished when Betty came in and told Mr 
Adams Mr Barnabas desired to speak to him on some busi¬ 
ness of consequence below-stairs. Joseph desired, if it was 
likely to detain him long, he would let him know it, that he 
might go to bed, which Adams promised, and in that case 
they wished one another good-night. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A PLEASANT DISCOURSE BETWEEN THE TWO PARSONS AND THE 
BOOKSELLER, WHICH WAS BROKE OFF BY AN UNLUCKY AC¬ 
CIDENT HAPPENING IN THE INN, WHICH PRODUCED A DIA¬ 
LOGUE BETWEEN MRS TOW-WOUSE AND HER MAID OF NO 
GENTLE KIND. 

soon as Adams came into the room, Mr Barnabas in- 



jfTL troduced him to the stranger, who was, he told him, a 
bookseller, and would be as likely to deal with him for his ser¬ 
mons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the stranger, 
answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; 
that nothing could be more convenient, for he had no other 
business to the great city, and was heartily desirous of re¬ 
turning with the young man, who was just recovered of his 
misfortune. He then snapt his fingers (as was usual with 
him), and took two or three turns about the room in an 
ecstasy. And to induce the bookseller to be as expeditious 


61 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


- 7 

j 

as possible, as likewise to offer him a better price for his 
crmmodity, he assured them their meeting was extremely 
lucky to himself; for that he had the most pressing occasion 
for money at that time, his own being almost spent, and 
having a friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered 
from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in 
a most indigent condition. “ So that nothing,” says he, 
“ could be so opportune for the supplying both our necessities 
as my making an immediate bargain with you.” 

As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in 
these words: “ Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging 
in what my friend Mr Barnabas recommends; but sermons 
are mere drugs. The trade is so vastly stocked with them, 
that really, unless they come out with the name of Whitefield 
or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or those 
sort of people, I don’t care to touch; unless now it was a ser¬ 
mon preached on the 30th of January; or we could say in the 
title-page, published at the earnest request of the congrega¬ 
tion, or the inhabitants; but, truly, for a dry piece of ser¬ 
mons, I had rather be excused; especially as my hands are 
so full at present. However, sir, as Mr Barnabas mentioned 
them to me, I will, if you please, take the manuscript with me 
to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very short time.” 

“ Oh! ” said Adams, “ if you desire it, I will read two or 
three discourses as a specimen.” This Barnabas, who loved 
sermons no better than a grocer doth figs, immediately ob¬ 
jected to, and advised Adams to let the bookseller have his 
sermons: telling him, if he gave him a direction, he might 
be certain of a speedy answer: adding, he need not scruple 
trusting them in his possession. “ No,” said the bookseller, 
“ if it was a play that had been acted twenty nights together, 
I believe it would be safe.” 

Adams did not at all relish the last expression; he said 
he was sorry to hear sermons compared to plays. “ Not by 
me, I assure you,” cried the bookseller, “ though I don’t know 
whether the licensing act may not shortly bring them to the 
same footing; but I have formerly known a hundred guineas 
given for a play.”—“ More shame for those who gave it,” 
cried Barnabas. “ Why so?” said the bookseller, “for they 
got hundreds by it.” —“ But is there no difference between 

62 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


conveying good or ill instructions to mankind ? ” said Ada A or 
“ Would not an honest mind rather lose money by the one 
than gain it by the other?”—“If you can find any such, I 
will not be their hindrance,” answered the bookseller; “ but 1 
think those persons who get by preaching sermons are the 
properest to lose by printing them: for my part, the copy 
that sells best will be always the best copy in my opinion; 
I am no enemy to sermons, but because they don’t sell: for 
I would as soon print one of Whitefield’s as any farce what¬ 
ever.” 

“ Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged,” 
says Barnabas. “ Sir,” said he, turning to Adams, “ this 
fellow’s writings (I know not whether you have seen them) 
are levelled at the clergy. He would reduce us to the ex¬ 
ample of the primitive ages, forsooth! and would insinuate 
to the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching 
and praying. He pretends to understand the Scripture liter¬ 
ally; and would make mankind believe that the poverty and 
low estate which was recommended to the church in its in¬ 
fancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to her under 
persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing and es¬ 
tablished state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and 
all the freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the mischief, 
as those professed by this fellow and his followers.” 

“ Sir,” answered Adams, “ if Mr Whitefield had carried his 
doctrine no farther than you mention, I should have re¬ 
mained, as I once was, his well-wisher. I am, myself, as 
great an enemy to the luxury and splendour of the clergy as 
he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing estate 
of the Church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress, fur¬ 
niture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. 
Surely those things, which savour so strongly of this world, 
become not the servants of one who professed his kingdom 
was not of it. But when he began to call nonsense and en¬ 
thusiasm to his aid, and set up the detestable doctrine of 
faith against good works, I was his friend no longer; for 
surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would think 
none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach 
it. For can anything be more derogatory to the honour of 
of God than for men to imagine that the all-wise Being will 

63 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


as / 4 after say to the good and virtuous, ‘ Notwithstanding 
the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that constant rule of 
virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth, still, 
as thou didst not believe everything in the true orthodox man¬ 
ner, thy want of faith shall condemn thee ? ’ Or, on the 
other side, can any doctrine have a more pernicious influence 
on society, than a persuasion that it will be a good plea for 
the villain at the last day— £ Lord, it is true I never obeyed 
one of thy commandments, yet punish me not, for I believe 
them all ? ’ ”—“ I suppose, sir,” said the bookseller, “ your 
sermons are of a different kind.”—“ Ay, sir,” said Adams; 
“ the contrary, I thank Heaven, is inculcated in almost every 
page, or I should belie my own opinion, which hath always 
been, that a virtuous and good Turk, or heathen, are more ac¬ 
ceptable in the sight of their Creator than a vicious and wicked 
Christian, though his faith was as perfectly orthodox as St. 
Paul himself.”—“ I wish you success,” says the bookseller, 
“but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full 
at present; and, indeed, I am afraid you will find a backward¬ 
ness in the trade to engage in a book which the clergy would 
be certain to cry down.”—“ God forbid,” says Adams, “ any 
books should be propagated which the clergy would cry down; 
but if you mean by the clergy, some few designing factious 
men, who have it at heart to establish some favourite schemes 
at the price of liberty of mankind, and the very essence of 
religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any 
book they please; witness that excellent book called, A Plain 
Account of the Nature and End of the Sacrament—a book 
written (if I may venture on the expression) with the pen of 
an angel, and calculated to restore the true use of Christianity, 
and of that sacred institution; for what could tend more to the 
noble purposes of religion than frequent cheerful meetings 
among the members of a society, in which they should, in 
the presence of one another, and in the service of the Supreme 
Being, make promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent 
to each other? Now, this excellent book was attacked by a 
party, but unsuccessfully.” At these words Barnabas fell a 
ringing with all the violence imaginable; upon which a ser¬ 
vant attending, he bid him bring a bill immediately; for that 
he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil him- 

64 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


self; and he expected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, or 
Woolston commended, if he staid a few minutes longer. 
Adams desired, as he was so much moved at his mentioning 
a book which he did without apprehending any possibility 
of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any ob¬ 
jections he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer. 
—“I propose objections! ” said Barnabas, “I never read a 
syllable in any such wicked book; I never saw it in my life, 
I assure you.”—Adams was going to answer, when a most 
hideous uproar began in the inn. Mrs Tow-wouse, Mr 
Tow-wouse, and Betty all lifting up their voices together; 
but Mrs Tow-wouse’s voice, like a bass viol in a concert, was 
clearly and distinctly distinguished among the rest, and was 
heard to articulate the following sounds:—“ O you damn’d 
villain! is this the return to all the care I have taken of 
your family? This the reward of my virtue? Is this the 
manner in which you behave to one who brought you a 
fortune, and preferred you to so many matches, all your 
betters? To abuse my bed, my own bed, with my own ser¬ 
vant ! but I’ll maul the slut, I’ll tear her nasty eyes out! Was 
ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a mean trollop? 
If she had been a gentlewoman, like myself, it had been 
some excuse; but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant-maid. Get 
you out of my house, you whore.” To which she added an¬ 
other name, which we do not care to stain our paper with. 
It was a monosyllable beginning with a b—, and indeed was 
the same as if she had pronounced the words, she-dog. Which 
term we shall, to avoid offence, use on this occasion, though 
indeed both the mistress and maid uttered the above-men¬ 
tioned b—, a word extremely disgustful to females of the 
lower sort. Betty had borne all hitherto with patience, and 
had uttered only lamentations; but the last appellation stung 
her to the quick. “ I am a woman as well as yourself,” she 
roared out, “and no she-dog; and if I have been a little 
naughty, I am not the first; if I have been no better than I 
should be,” cried she, sobbing, “ that’s no reason you should 
call me out of my name; my be-betters are wo-worse than 
me.”—“ Huzzy, huzzy,” says Mrs Tow-wouse, “ have you the 
impudence to answer me ? Did I not catch you, you saucy ” 
—and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to 

5 65 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


female ears. “ I can’t bear that name,” answered Betty: “ if 
I have been wicked, I am to answer for it myself in the 
other world; but I have done nothing that’s unnatural; and 
I will go out of your house this moment, for I will never'be 
called she-dog by any mistress in England.” Mrs Tow-wouse 
then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from exe¬ 
cuting any dreadful purpose by Mr Adams, who confined 
her arms with the strength of a wrist which Hercules would 
not have been ashamed of. Mr Tow-wouse, being caught, 
as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no 
defence to make, very prudently withdrew himself; and Betty 
committed herself to the protection of the hostler, who, 
though she could not conceive him pleased with what had 
happened, was, in her opinion, rather a gentler beast than 
her mistress. 

Mrs Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr Adams, and 
finding the enemy vanished, began to compose herself, and 
at length recovered the usual serenity of her temper, in which 
we will leave her, to open to the reader the steps which led 
to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical enough too 
perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and 
well-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies, 
both in life and on the stage. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE HISTORY OF BETTY THE CHAMBERMAID, AND AN ACCOUNT 
OF WHAT OCCASIONED THE VIOLENT SCENE IN THE PRE¬ 
CEDING CHAPTER. 

B ETTY, who was the occasion of all this hurry, had some 
good qualities. She had good-nature, generosity, and 
compassion, but unfortunately her constitution was composed 
of those warm ingredients which, though the purity of courts 
or nunneries might have happily controlled them, were by 
no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chamber¬ 
maid at an inn; who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers 
of all complexions; to the dangerous addresses of fine gentle- 

66 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


men of the army, who sometimes are obliged to reside with 
them a whole year together; and, above all, are exposed to 
the caresses of footmen, stage-coachmen, and drawers; all 
of whom employ the whole artillery of kissing, flattering, brib¬ 
ing, and every other weapon which is to be found in the whole 
armoury of love, against them. 

Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived three 
years in this dangerous situation, during which she had es¬ 
caped pretty well. An ensign of foot was the first person 
who made an impression on her heart; he did indeed raise 
a flame in her which required the care of a surgeon to cool. 

While she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. 
Officers of the army, young gentlemen travelling the western 
circuit, inoffensive squires, and some of graver character, were 
set a-fire by her charms! 

At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her 
first unhappy passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of 
perpetual chastity. She was long deaf to all the sufferings of 
her lovers, till one day, at a neighbouring fair, the rhetoric 
of John the hostler, with a new straw hat, and a pint of wine, 
made a second conquest over her. 

She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this 
occasion which had been the consequence of her former 
amour; nor, indeed, those other ill effects which prudent 
young women very justly apprehend from too absolute an 
indulgence to the pressing endearments of their lovers. This 
latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being entirely 
constant to John, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell 
the stage-coachman, and now and then a handsome young 
traveller, to share her favours. 

Mr Tow-wouse had for some time cast the languishing eyes 
of affection on this young maiden. He had laid hold on every 
opportunity of saying tender things to her, squeezing her by 
the hand, and sometimes kissing her lips; for, as the vio¬ 
lence of his passion had considerably abated to Mrs Tow- 
wouse, so, like water which is stopt from its usual current 
in one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs 
Tow-wouse is thought to have perceived this abatement, and, 
probably, it added very little to the natural sweetness of her 
temper; for though she was as true to her husband as the 

67 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous of being shone 
on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth. 

Ever since Joseph’s arrival, Betty had conceived an extra¬ 
ordinary liking to him, which discovered itself more and more 
as he grew better and better; till that fatal evening, when, 
as she was warming his bed, her passion grew to such a height, 
and so perfectly mastered both her modesty and her reason, 
that, after many fruitless hints and sly insinuations, she at 
last threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him with 
great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she 
had ever seen. 

Joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told her he 
was sorry to see a young woman cast off all regard to mod¬ 
esty; but she had gone too far to recede, and grew so very 
indecent, that Joseph was obliged, contrary to his inclination, 
to use some violence to her; and, taking her in his arms, he 
shut her out of the room, and locked the door. 

How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is always in his 
own power; that, if he hath sufficient strength of mind, he 
hath always a competent strength of body to defend himself, 
and cannot, like a poor weak woman, be ravished against his 
will! 

Betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappoint¬ 
ment. Rage and lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, 
two different ways; one moment she thought of stabbing Jo¬ 
seph; the next, of taking him in her arms, and devouring 
him with kisses; but the latter passion was far more preva¬ 
lent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; 
but, whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death 
presented himself to her in so many shapes, of drowning, 
hanging, poisoning, &c., that her distracted mind could resolve 
on none. In this perturbation of spirit, it accidentally oc¬ 
curred to her memory that her master’s bed was not made; 
she therefore went directly to his room, where he happened 
at that time to be engaged at his bureau. As soon as she 
saw him she attempted to retire; but he called her back, and, 
taking her by the hand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same 
time whispering so many soft things into her ears, and then 
pressed her so closely with his kisses, that the vanquished fair 
one* whose passions were already raised, and which were not 

68 


I 



] 


Taking her in his arms, he shut her out of the room” 










































JOSEPH ANDREWS 


so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay them, 
though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one— 
the vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her mas¬ 
ter’s will, who had just attained the accomplishment of his 
bliss when Mrs Tow-wouse unexpectedly entered the room, 
and caused all that confusion which we have before seen, 
and which it is not necessary, at present, to take any farther 
notice of; since, without the assistance of a single hint from 
us, every reader of any speculation or experience, though not 
married himself, may easily conjecture that it concluded with 
the discharge of Betty, the submission of Mr Tow-wouse, with 
some things to be performed on his side by way of gratitude 
for his wife’s goodness in being reconciled to him, with 
many hearty promises never to offend any more in the like 
manner; and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to be 
reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or 
twice a-day during the residue of his life. 


69 


BOOK II. 


CHAPTER I. 

OF DIVISIONS IN AUTHORS. 

T HERE are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from 
the highest to the lowest, from that of prime-ministering 
to this of authoring, which are seldom discovered unless to 
members of the same calling. Among those used by us gen¬ 
tlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of dividing our 
works into books and chapters to be none of the least con¬ 
siderable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this 
secret, common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing 
we mean only to swell our works to a much larger bulk than 
they would otherwise be extended to. These several places 
therefore in our paper, which are filled with our books and 
chapters, are understood as so much buckram, stays, and stay- 
tape in a tailor’s bill, serving only to make up the sum total, 
commonly found at the bottom of our first page and of his 
last. 

But in reality the case is otherwise, and in this as well as 
all other instances we consult the advantage of our reader, 
not our own; and indeed many notable uses arise to him 
from this method; for, first, those little spaces between our 
chapters may be looked upon as an inn or resting-place where 
he may stop and take a glass or any other refreshment as it 
pleases him. Nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be scarce 
able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. As 
to those vacant pages which are placed between our books, 
they are to be regarded as those stages where in long journeys 
the traveller stays some time to repose himself, and consider 
of what he hath seen in the parts he hath already passed 

70 



THE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS 

through; a consideration which I take the liberty to recom¬ 
mend a little to the reader; for, however swift his capacity 
may be, I would not advise him to travel through these pages 
too fast; for if he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some 
curious productions of nature, which will be observed by the 
slower and more accurate reader. A volume without any such 
places of rest resembles the opening of wilds or seas, which 
tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon. 

Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter 
but so many inscriptions over the gates of inns (to continue 
the same metaphor), informing the reader what entertainment 
he is to expect, which if he likes not, he may travel on to the 
next; for, in biography, as we are not tied down to an exact 
concatenation equally with other historians, so a chapter or 
two (for instance, this I am now writing) may be often passed 
over without any injury to the whole. And in these inscrip¬ 
tions I have been as faithful as possible, not imitating the 
celebrated Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives 
you another; nor some title-page authors, who promise a great 
deal and produce nothing at all. 

There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several 
others which our readers enjoy from this art of dividing; 
though perhaps most of them too mysterious to be presently 
understood by any who are not initiated into the science of 
authoring. To mention, therefore, but one which is most 
obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning 
down its leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers 
who (though they read with great improvement and ad¬ 
vantage) are apt, when they return to their study after half 
an hour’s absence, to forget where they left off. 

These divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. Homer 
not only divided his great work into twenty-four books (in 
compliment perhaps to the twenty-four letters to which he had 
very particular obligations), but, according to the opinion of 
some very sagacious critics, hawked them all separately, de¬ 
livering only one book at a time (probably by subscription). 
He was the first inventor of the art which hath so long lain 
dormant, of publishing by numbers; an art now brought 
to such perfection, that even dictionaries are 'divided and 
exhibited piecemeal to the public; nay, one bookseller hath 

7 1 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


(to encourage learning and ease the public) contrived to give 
them a dictionary in this divided manner for only fifteen 
shillings more than it would have cost entire. 

Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an argument 
of his modesty; for by that, doubtless, he would insinuate 
that he pretends to no more than half the merit of the Greek; 
for the same reason, our Milton went originally no farther 
than ten; till, being puffed up by the praise of his friends, he 
put himself on the same footing with the Roman poet. 

I shall not, however, enter so deep into this matter as 
some very learned critics have done; who have with infinite 
labour and acute discernment discovered what books are 
proper for embellishment, and what require simplicity only, 
particularly with regard to similes, which I think are now 
generally agreed to become any book but the first. 

I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation: 
that it becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does 
a butcher to joint his meat, for such assistance is of great 
help to both the reader and the carver. And now, having 
indulged myself a little, I will endeavour to indulge the 
curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt impatient to know 
what he will find in the subsequent chapters of this book. 


CHAPTER II. 

A SURPRISING INSTANCE OF MR ADAMS’S SHORT MEMORY, WITH 
THE UNFORTUNATE CONSEQUENCES WHICH IT BROUGHT ON 
JOSEPH. 

TVvTR ADAMS and Joseph were now ready to depart dif- 
ferent ways, when an accident determined the former 
to return with his friend, which Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and 
the bookseller had not been able to do. This accident was, 
that those sermons, which the parson was travelling to London 
to publish, were, O my good reader! left behind; what he had 
mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than 
three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, 
which Mrs Adams, who thought her husband would want 

72 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 

shirts more than sermons on his journey, had carefully pro¬ 
vided him. 

This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of 
Joseph at the opening of the saddlebags; who, having heard 
his friend say he carried with him nine volumes of sermons, 
and not being of that sect of philosophers who can reduce all 
the matter of the world into a nutshell, seeing there was no 
room for them in the bags, where the parson had said they 
were deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, “ Bless me, sir, 
where are your sermons ? ” The parson answered, “ There, 
there, child; there they are, under my shirts.” Now it hap¬ 
pened that he had taken forth his last shirt, and the vehicle 
remained visibly empty. “ Sure, sir,” says Joseph, “ there is 
nothing in the bags.” Upon which Adams, starting, and tes¬ 
tifying some surprize, cried, “ Hey! fie, fie upon it! they are 
not here sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left behind.” 

Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he 
apprehended his friend must feel from this disappointment; 
he begged him to pursue his journey, and promised he would 
himself return with the books to him with the utmost expe¬ 
dition. “No, thank you, child,” answered Adams; “it shall 
not be so. What would it avail me, to tarry in the great 
city, unless I had my discourses with me, which are ut ita 
dicam, the sole cause, the aitia monotate of my peregrination ? 
No, child, as this accident hath happened, I am resolved to 
return back to my cure, together with you; which indeed 
my inclination sufficiently leads me to. This disappointment 
may perhaps be intended for my good.” He concluded with 
a verse out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than that 
sometimes it rains, and sometimes the sun shines. 

Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the 
inclination which the parson expressed of returning with 
him; and now the bill was called for, which, on examination, 
amounted within a shilling to the sum Mr Adams had in his 
pocket. Perhaps the reader may wonder how he was able 
to produce a sufficient sum for so many days: that he may not 
be surprized, therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to acquaint 
him that he borrowed a guinea of a servant belonging to the 
coach and six, who had been formerly one of his parishioners, 
and whose master, the owner of the coach, then lived within 

73 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


three miles of him; for so good was the credit of Mr Adams, 
that even Mr Peter, the Lady Booby’s steward, would have 
lent him a guinea with very little security. 

Mr Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting 
out, having agreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling 
much used by persons who have but one horse between them, 
and is thus performed. The two travellers set out together, 
one on horseback, the other on foot: now, as it generally hap¬ 
pens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the custom is, 
that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to dis¬ 
mount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, 
and then proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the 
horse he unties him, mounts, and gallops on, till, having 
passed by his fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place 
of tying. And this is that method of travelling so much in 
use among our prudent ancestors, who knew that horses had 
mouths as well as legs, and that they could not use the latter 
without being at the expense of suffering the beasts them¬ 
selves to use the former. This was the method in use in 
those days when, instead of a coach and six, a member of 
parliament’s lady used to mount a pillion behind her hus¬ 
band; and a grave serjeant at law condescended to amble to 
Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk kicking his heels 
behind him. 

Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on 
Joseph’s beginning the journey on horseback, and Joseph 
had his foot in the stirrup, when the hostler presented him 
a bill for the horse’s board during his residence at the inn. 
Joseph said Mr Adams had paid all; but this matter, being 
referred to Mr Tow-wouse, was by him decided in favour of 
the hostler, and indeed with truth and justice; for this was 
a fresh instance of that shortness of memory which did not 
arise from want of parts, but that continual hurry in which 
parson Adams was always involved. 

Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely 
puzzled him. The sum due for horse-meat was twelve shil¬ 
lings (for Adams, who had borrowed the beast of his clerk, 
had ordered him to be fed as well as they could feed him), 
and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adams 
had divided the last shilling with him). Now, though there 

74 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


have been some ingenious persons who have contrived to pay 
twelve shillings with sixpence, Joseph was not one of them. 
He had never contracted a debt in his life, and was conse¬ 
quently the less ready at an expedient to extricate himself. 
Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit till next time, to 
which Mrs Tow-wouse would probably have consented (for 
such was Joseph’s beauty, that it had made some impression 
even on that piece of flint which that good woman wore 
in her bosom by way of heart). Joseph would have found, 
therefore, very likely the passage free, had he not, when he 
honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out 
that little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. 
This caused Mrs Tow-wouse’s eyes to water; she told Joseph 
she did not conceive a man could want money whilst he had 
gold in his pocket. Joseph answered he had such a value 
for that little piece of gold, that he would not part with it for 
a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire in the 
county was worth. “ A pretty way, indeed,” said Mrs Tow- 
wouse, “ to run in debt, and then refuse to part with your 
money, because you have a value for it! I never knew any 
piece of gold of more value than as many shillings as it 
would change for.”—“ Not to preserve my life from starving, 
nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part with this dear 
piece! ” answered Joseph. “ What,” says Mrs Tow-wouse, 
“ I suppose it was given you by some vile trollop, some miss 
or other; if it had been the present of a virtuous woman, 
you would not have had such a value for it. My husband 
is a fool if he parts with the horse without being paid for 
him.”—“ No, no, I can’t part with the horse, indeed, till I 
have the money,” cried Tow-wouse. ’ A resolution highly 
commended by a lawyer then in the yard, who declared Mr 
Tow-wouse might justify the detainer. 

As we cannot therefore at present get Mr Joseph out of 
the inn, we shall leave him in it, and carry our reader on 
after parson Adams, who, his mind being perfectly at ease, 
fell into a contemplation on a passage in yEschylus, which 
entertained him for three miles together, without suffering 
him once to reflect on his fellow-traveller. 

At length, having spun out his thread, and being now at 
the summit of a hill, he cast his eyes backwards, and won- 

75 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


dered that he could not see any sign of Joseph. As he left 
him ready to mount the horse, he could not apprehend any 
mischief had happened, neither could he suspect that he 
missed his way, it being so broad and plain; the only reason 
which presented itself to him was, that he had met with an 
acquaintance who had prevailed with him to delay some time 
in discourse. 

He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not 
doubting but that he should be shortly overtaken; and soon 
came to a large water, which, filling the whole road, he saw 
no method of passing unless by wading through, which he 
accordingly did up to his middle; but was no sooner got to 
the other side than he perceived, if he had looked over the 
hedge, he would have found a footpath capable of conducting 
him without wetting his shoes. 

His surprize at Joseph’s not coming up grew now very 
troublesome: he began to fear he knew not what; and as 
he determined to move no farther, and, if he did not shortly 
overtake him, to return back, he wished to find a house of 
public entertainment where he might dry his clothes and 
refresh himself with a pint; but, seeing no such (for no 
other reason than because he did not cast his eyes a hundred 
yards forwards), he sat himself down on a stile, and pulled 
out his ^Eschylus. 

A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if he 
could direct him to an alehouse. The fellow, who had just 
left it, and perceived the house and sign to be within sight, 
thinking he had jeered him, and being of a morose temper, 
bade him follow his nose and be d—n’d. Adams told him 
he was a saucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned 
about angrily; but, perceiving Adams clench his fist, he 
thought proper to go on without taking any farther notice. 

A horseman, following immediately after, and being asked 
the same question, answered, Friend, there is one within a 
stone’s throw; I believe you may see it before you. Adams, 
lifting up his eyes, cried, I protest, and so there is; and, 
thanking his informer, proceeded directly to it. 


7 6 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


CHAPTER III. 

THE OPINION OF TWO LAWYERS CONCERNING THE SAME GEN¬ 
TLEMAN, WITH MR ADAMS’S INQUIRY INTO THE RELIGION 
OF HIS HOST. 

H E had just entered the house, and called for his pint, 
and seated himself, when two horsemen came to the 
door, and, fastening their horses to the rails, alighted. They 
said there was a violent shower of rain coming on, which they 
intended to weather there, and went into a little room by 
themselves, not perceiving Mr Adams. 

One of these immediately asked the other, if he had seen 
a more comical adventure a great while? Upon which the 
other said, he doubted whether by law, the landlord could 
justify detaining the horse for his corn and hay. But the 
former answered, undoubtedly he can; it is an adjudged 
case, and I have known it tried. 

Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may suspect, a 
little inclined to forgetfulness, never wanted more than a 
hint to remind him, overhearing their discourse, immediately 
suggested to himself that this was his own horse, and that he 
had forgot to pay for him, which, upon inquiry, he was 
certified of by the gentlemen; who added, that the horse 
was likely to have more rest than food, unless he was paid for. 

The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, 
though he knew no more than Joseph how to procure his 
horse his liberty; he was however prevailed on to stay under 
covert, till the shower, which was now very violent, was over. 

The three travellers then sat down together over a mug of 
good beer; when Adams, who had observed a gentleman's 
house as he passed along the road, enquired to whom it be¬ 
longed; one of the horsemen had no sooner mentioned the 
owner's name, than the other began to revile him in the 
most opprobrious terms. The English language scarce affords 
a single reproachful word, which he did not vent on this 
occasion. He charged him likewise with many particular 
facts. He said,—he no more regarded a field of wheat 
when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he 

77 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


had injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn 
under his horse’s heels; and if any of them begged him 
with the utmost submission to refrain, his horsewhip was 
always ready to do them justice. He said, that he was the 
greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every other instance, and 
would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he might 
justify it by law; and in his own family so cruel a master, 
that he never kept a servant a twelvemonth. “ In his capacity 
as a justice,” continued he, “ he behaves so partially, that 
he commits or acquits just as he is in the humour, without 
any regard to truth or evidence; the devil may carry any 
one before him for me; I would rather be tried before some 
judges, than be a prosecutor before him: if I had an estate 
in the neighbourhood, I would sell it for half the value 
rather than live near him.” 

Adams shook his head, and said, he was sorry such men 
were suffered to proceed with impunity, and that riches could 
set any man above the law. The reviler, a little after, retiring 
into the yard, the gentleman who had first mentioned his 
name to Adams began to assure him that his companion was 
a prejudiced person. It is true, says he, perhaps, that he 
may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of corn, 
but he hath always made the party ample satisfaction: that 
so far from tyrannizing over his neighbours, or taking away 
their guns, he himself knew several farmers not qualified, who 
not only kept guns, but killed game with them; that he 
was the best of masters to his servants, and several of them 
had grown old in his service; that he was the best justice of 
peace in the kingdom, and, to his certain knowledge, had 
decided many difficult points, which were referred to him, 
with the greatest equity and the highest wisdom; and he 
verily believed, several persons would give a year’s purchase 
more for an estate near him, than under the wings of any 
other great man. He had just finished his encomium when 
his companion returned and acquainted him the storm was 
over. Upon which they presently mounted their horses and 
departed. 

Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different 
characters of the same person, asked his host if he knew the 
gentleman: for he began to imagine they had bv mistake 

78 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

been speaking of two several gentlemen. “ No, no, master,’’ 
answered the host (a shrewd cunning fellow) ; “ I know the 
gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as I 
do the gentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding over 
other men’s corn, to my knowledge he hath not been on 
horseback these two years. I never heard he did any injury 
of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is not so free 
of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear 
of his taking away 'any man’s gun; nay, I know several who 
have guns in their houses; but as for killing game with 
them, no man is stricter; and I believe he would ruin any 
who did. You heard one of the gentlemen say he was the 
worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best; 
but for my own part, I know all his servants, and never heard 
from any of them that he was either one or the other.”— 
“ Aye! aye! ” says Adams; “ and how doth he behave as a 
justice, pray? ”—“ Faith, friend,” answered the host, “ I ques¬ 
tion whether he is in the commission; the only cause I have 
heard he hath decided a great while, was one between those 
very two persons who just went out of this house; and I am 
sure he determined that justly, for I heard the whole matter.” 
—“ Which did he decide it in favour of ? ” quoth Adams. 
“ I think I need not answer that question,” cried the host, 
“ after the different characters you have heard of him. It is 
not my business to contradict gentlemen while they are 
drinking in my house; but I knew neither of them spoke a 
syllable of truth.”—“ God forbid! ” said Adams, “ that men 
should arrive at such a pitch of wickedness to belie the char¬ 
acter of their neighbour from a little private affection, or, 
what is infinitely worse, a private spite. I rather believe we 
have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons; for 
there are many houses on the road.”—“ Why, prithee, friend,” 
cries the host, “ dost thou pretend never to have told a lie in 
thy life? ”—“ Never a malicious one, I am certain,” answered 
Adams, “ nor with a design to injure the reputation of any 
man living.”—“ Pugh! malicious; no, no,” replied the host; 
“ not malicious with a design to hang a man, or bring him into 
trouble; but surely, out of love to oneself, one must speak 
better of a friend than an enemy.”—" Out of love to yourself, 
you should confine yourself to truth,” says Adams, “ for by 

79 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


doing otherwise you injure the noblest part of yourself, your 
immortal soul. I can hardly believe any man such an idiot 
to risk the loss of that by any trifling gain, and the greatest 
gain in this world is but dirt in comparison of what shall be 
revealed hereafter.” Upon which the host, taking up the 
cup, with a smile, drank a health to hereafter; adding, he 
was for something present. “ Why,” says Adams very 
gravely, “ do not you believe in another world ? ” To which 
the host answered, yes; he was no atheist. “And you be¬ 
lieve you have an immortal soul ? ” cries Adams. He an¬ 
swered, God forbid he should not. “ And heaven and hell ? ” 
said the parson. The host then bid him not to profane; for 
those were things not to be mentioned nor thought of but in 
church. Adams asked him, why he went to church, if what 
he learned there had no influence on his conduct in life? 
“ I go to church,” answered the host, “ to say my prayers 
and behave godly.”—“ And dost not thou,” cried Adams, “ be¬ 
lieve what thou hearest at church ? ”—“ Most part of it, mas¬ 
ter,” returned the host. “ And dost not thou then tremble,” 
cries Adams, “ at the thought of eternal punishment ? ”—“ As 
for that, master,” said he, “ I never once thought about it; 
but what signifies talking about matters so far off ? The mug 
is out, shall I draw another ? ” 

Whilst he was going for that purpose a stage-coach drove 
up to the door. The coachman coming into the house was 
asked by the mistress what passengers he had in his coach? 
“A parcel of squinny-gut b—s,” says he; “I have a good 
mind to overturn them; you won’t prevail upon them to 
drink anything, I assure you.” Adams asked him, if he 
had not seen a young man on horseback on the road (de¬ 
scribing Joseph). “ Ay,” said the coachman, “ a gentlewoman 
in my coach that is his acquaintance redeemed him and his 
horse; he would have been here before this time, had not 
the storm driven him to shelter.” “ God bless her! ” said 
Adams in a rapture; nor could he delay walking out to sat¬ 
isfy himself who this charitable woman was; but what was 
his surprize when he saw his old acquaintance, madam Slip¬ 
slop? Hers indeed was not so great, because she had been 
informed by Joseph that he was on the road. Very civil 
were the salutations on both sides; and Mrs Slipslop rebuked 

80 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


the hostess for denying the gentleman to be there when she 
asked for him; but indeed the poor woman had not erred 
designedly; for Mrs Slipslop asked for a clergyman, and she 
had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person travelling to a 
neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or some other 
such operation; for he marched in a swinging great but short 
white coat with black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, 
so far from having a black hatband, had nothing black 
about it. 

Joseph was now come up, and Mrs Slipslop would have 
had him quit his horse to the parson, and come himself into 
the coach; but he absolutely refused, saying, he thanked 
Heaven he was well enough recovered to be very able to ride 
and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to ride 
in a coach while Mr Adams was on horseback. 

Mrs Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady 
in the coach put a short end to the dispute, by refusing to 
suffer a fellow in a livery to ride in the same coach with 
herself; so it was at length agreed that Adams should fill 
the vacant place in the coach, and Joseph should proceed on 
horseback. 

They had not proceeded far before Mrs Slipslop, address¬ 
ing herself to the parson, spoke thus:—“ There hath been a 
strange alteration in our family, Mr Adams, since Sir 
Thomas’s death.” “ A strange alteration indeed,” says Adams, 
“ as I gather from some hints which have dropped from Jo¬ 
seph.”—“ Ay,” says she, “ I could never have believed it; 
but the longer one lives in the world, the more one sees. So 
Joseph hath given you hints.” “ But of what nature will 
always remain a perfect secret with me,” cries the parson: 
“ he forced me to promise before he would communicate any¬ 
thing. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave 
in so unbecoming. a manner. I always thought her in the 
main a good lady, and should never have suspected her of 
thoughts so unworthy a Christian, and with a young lad her 
own servant.” “ These things are no secrets to me, I assure 
you,” cries Slipslop, “and I believe they will be none any¬ 
where shortly; for ever since the boy’s departure she hath 
behaved more like a mad woman than anything else.” 
“ Truly, I am heartily concerned,” says Adams, “ for she was 
6 81 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


a good sort of a lady. Indeed, I have often wished she had 
attended a little more constantly at the service, but she hath 
done a great deal of good in the parish.” “ O Mr Adams,” 
says Slipslop, “ people that don’t see all often know nothing. 
Many things have been given away in our family, I do assure 
you, without her knowledge. I have heard you say in the 
pulpit we ought not to brag; but indeed I can’t avoid saying, 
if she had kept the keys herself, the poor would have wanted 
many a cordial which I have let them have. As for my late 
master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would 
have done infinite good if he had not been controlled; but 
he loved a quiet life, Heaven rest his soul! I am confident 
he is there, and enjoys a quiet life, which some folks would 
not allow him here.”—Adams answered, he had never heard 
this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for he remem¬ 
bered she used to commend her mistress and blame her mas¬ 
ter) had not formerly been of another opinion. “ I don’t 
know,” replied she, “ what I might once think; but now I 
am confidous matters are as I tell you; the world will shortly 
see who hath been deceived; for my part, I say nothing, but 
that it is wondersome how some people can carry all things 
with a grave face.” 

Thus Mr Adams and she discoursed, till they came op¬ 
posite to a great house which stood at some distance from 
the road: a lady in the coach, spying it, cried, “ Yonder lives 
the unfortunate Leonora, if one can justly call a woman un¬ 
fortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty and 
the author of her own calamity.” This was abundantly suf¬ 
ficient to awaken the curiosity of Mr Adams, as indeed it 
did that of the whole company, who jointly solicited the 
lady to acquaint them with Leonora’s history, since it seemed, 
by what she had said, to contain something remarkable. 

The lady who was perfectly well bred, did not require 
many entreaties, and having only wished their entertainment 
might make amends for the company’s attention, she began 
In the following manner. 


82 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE HISTORY OF LEONORA, OR THE UNFORTUNATE JILT. 

L EONORA was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune; 

/ she was tall and well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her 
countenance which often attracts beyond more regular fea¬ 
tures joined with an insipid air: nor is this kind of beauty 
less apt to deceive than allure; the good humour which it in¬ 
dicates being often mistaken for good nature, and the vivacity 
for true understanding. 

Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with 
an aunt of hers in a town in the north of England. She 
was an extreme lover of gaiety, and very rarely missed a ball 
or any other public assembly; where she had frequent op¬ 
portunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity, with the 
preference which was given her by the men to almost every 
other woman present. 

Among many young fellows who were particular in their 
gallantries towards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself 
in her eyes beyond all his competitors; she danced with more 
than ordinary gaiety when he happened to be her partner; 
neither the fairness of the evening, nor the music of the 
nightingale, could lengthen her walk like his company. She 
affected no longer to understand the civilities of others; whilst 
she inclined so attentive an ear to every compliment of Ho¬ 
ratio, that she often smiled even when it was too delicate 
for her comprehension. 

“ Pray, madam,” says Adams, “ who was this squire 
Horatio ? ” 

Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of a good 
family, bred to the law, and had been some few years called 
to the degree of a barrister. His face and person were such 
as the generality allowed handsome; but he had a dignity in 
his air very rarely to be seen. His temper was of the satur¬ 
nine complexion, but without the least taint of moroseness. 
He had wit and humour, with an inclination to satire, which 
he indulged rather too much. 

This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent pas- 

33 


THE ADVENTURES OF. 


sion for Leonora, was the last person who perceived the prob¬ 
ability of its success. The whole town had made the match 
for him before he himself had drawn a confidence from her 
actions sufficient to mention his passion to her; for it was 
his opinion (and perhaps he was there in the right) that it 
is highly impolitic to talk seriously of love to a woman before 
you have made such a progress in her affections, that she her¬ 
self expects and desires to hear it. 

But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, 
which are apt to magnify every favour conferred on a rival, 
and to see the little advances towards themselves through the 
other end of the perspective, it was impossible that Horatio’s 
passion should so blind his discernment as to prevent his 
conceiving hopes from the behaviour of Leonora, whose fond¬ 
ness for him was now as visible to an indifferent person in 
their company as his for her. 

“ I never knew any of these forward sluts come to good ” 
(says the lady who refused Joseph’s entrance into the coach), 
“ nor shall I wonder at anything she doth in the sequel.” 

The lady proceeded in her story thus: It was in the midst 
of a gay conversation in the walks one evening, when Horatio 
whispered Leonora, that he was desirous to take a turn or 
two with her in private, for that he had something to com¬ 
municate to her of great consequence. “ Are you sure it is 
of consequence ? ” said she, smiling. “ I hope,” answered he, 
“ you will think so too, since the whole future happiness of 
my life must depend on the event.” 

Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, 
would have deferred it till another time; but Horatio, who 
had more than half conquered the difficulty of speaking by 
the first motion, was so very importunate, that she at last 
yielded, and, leaving the rest of the company, they turned 
aside into an unfrequented walk. 

They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both 
maintaining a strict silence. At last Horatio made a full 
stop, and taking Leonora, who stood pale and trembling, 
gently by the hand, he fetched a deep sigh, and then, looking 
on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable, he cried out 
in a faltering accent, “O Leonora! is it necessary for me 
to declare to you on what the future happiness of my life 

84 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

must be founded? Must I say, there is something belonging 
to you which is a bar to my happiness, and which unless you 
will part with, I must be miserable! ” —“ What can that be ? ” 
replied Leonora. “ No wonder,” said he, “ you are surprized 
that I should make an obj ection to anything which is yours: 
yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the 
riches of the world, if they were mine, should purchase for 
me. Oh, it is that which you must part with to bestow all 
the rest! Can Leonora, or rather will she, doubt longer? 
Let me then whisper it in her ears—It is your name, madam. 
It is by parting with that, by your condescension to be for 
ever mine, which must at once prevent me from being the 
most miserable, and will render me the happiest of man¬ 
kind.” 

Leonora, covered with blushes, and w r ith as angry a look 
as she could possibly put on, told him, that had she sus¬ 
pected what his declaration would have been, he should not 
have decoyed her from her company, that he had so surprized 
and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her back as 
quick as possible; which he, trembling very near as much 
as herself, did. 

“ More fool he,” cried Slipslop; “it is a sign he knew very 
little of our sect.”—“ Truly, madam,” said Adams, “ I think 
you are in the right: I should have insisted to know a piece 
of her mind, when I had carried matters so far.” But Mrs 
Grave-airs desired the lady to omit all such fulsome stuff in 
her story, for that it made her sick. 

Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the 
lady, many weeks had not passed after this interview before 
Horatio and Leonora were what they call on a good footing 
together. All ceremonies except the last were now over; 
the writings were now drawn, and everything was in the 
utmost forwardness preparative to the putting Horatio in 
possession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a 
letter from each of them, which I have got by heart, and which 
will give you no small idea of their passion on both sides. 

Mrs Grave-airs objected to hearing these letters; but being 
put to the vote, it was carried against her by all the rest in 
the coach; parson Adams contending for it with the utmost 
vehemence. 


85 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


HORATIO TO LEONORA. 

“ How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of plea¬ 
sure in the absence of an object to which the mind is entirely 
devoted, unless it have some relation to that object! I was 
last night condemned to the society of men of wit and learn¬ 
ing, which, however agreeable it might have formerly been to 
me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed my ab¬ 
sence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, 
when your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of 
seeing you, I am always desirous to be alone; since my senti¬ 
ments for Leonora are so delicate, that I cannot bear the 
apprehension of another’s prying into those delightful endear¬ 
ments with which the warm imagination of a lover will some¬ 
times indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then betray. 
To fear this discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too 
ridiculous a nicety to minds not susceptible of all the tender¬ 
nesses of this delicate passion. And surely we shall suspect 
there are few such, when we consider that it requires every 
human virtue to exert itself in its full extent; since the be¬ 
loved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may give us 
charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, gener¬ 
ous to her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to 
her kindness; and in the same manner, of exercising every 
other virtue, which he who would not do to any degree, and 
that with the utmost rapture, can never deserve the name of 
a lover. It is, therefore, with a view to the delicate modesty 
of your mind that I cultivate it so purely in my own; and it 
is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the uneasiness 
I bear from those liberties, which men to whom the world 
allow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these oc¬ 
casions. 

“ Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival 
of that blest day, when I shall experience the falsehood of a 
common assertion, that the greatest human happiness consists 
in hope ? A doctrine which no person had ever stronger rea¬ 
son to believe than myself at present, since none ever tasted 
such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of spending 
my future days with such a companion, and that every action 

86 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

of my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to 
your happiness.” 


LEONORA TO HORATIO.* 

“ The refinement of your mind has been so evidently 
proved by every word and action ever since I had the first 
pleasure of knowing you, that I thought it impossible my good 
opinion of Horatio could have been heightened to any addi¬ 
tional proof of merit. This very thought was my amusement 
when I received your last letter, which, when I opened, I con¬ 
fess I was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expressed 
there so far exceeding what I thought could come even from 
you (although I know all the generous principles human na¬ 
ture is capable of are centred in your breast), that words 
cannot paint what I feel on the reflection that my happiness 
shall be the ultimate end of all your actions. 

“ Oh, Horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest 
domestic cares are sweetened by the pleasing consideration 
that the man on earth who best deserves, and to whom you 
are most inclined to give your affections, is to reap either 
profit or pleasure from all you do! In such a case toils must 
be turned into diversions, and nothing but the unavoidable 
inconveniences of life can make us remember that we are 
mortal. 

“If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of 
keeping them undiscovered, makes even the conversation of 
men of wit and learning tedious to you, what anxious hours 
must I spend, who am condemned by custom to the conver¬ 
sation of women, whose natural curiosity leads them to pry 
into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never suffer 
Horatio’s heart to be possessed by any one, without forcing 
them into malicious designs against the person who is so 
happy as to possess it! But, indeed; if ever envy can possibly 
have any excuse, or even alleviation, it is in this case, where 
the good is so great, and it must be equally natural to all 
to wish it for themselves; nor am I ashamed to own it: and 
to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents my be¬ 
ing in that most uneasy of all the situations I can figure 
* This letter was written by a young lady on reading the former. 

s? 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


in my imagination, of being led by inclination to love the 
person whom my own judgment forces me to condemn.” 

Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond 
couple, that the day was fixed for their marriage, and was 
now within a fortnight, when the sessions chanced to be 
held for that county in a town about twenty miles’ distance 
from that which is the scene of our story. It seems, it is 
usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these 
sessions, not so much for the sake of profit as to show their 
parts and learn the law of the justices of peace; for which 
purpose one of the wisest and gravest of all the justices is 
appointed speaker, or chairman, as they modestly call it, and 
he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the true know¬ 
ledge of the law. 

“ You are here guilty of a little mistake,” says Adams, 
“which, if you please, I will correct: I have attended at one 
of these quarter-sessions, where I observed the counsel taught 
the justices, instead of learning anything of them.” 

It is not very material, said the lady. Hither repaired 
Horatio, who, as he hoped by his profession to advance his 
fortune, which was not at present very large, for the sake of 
his dear Leonora, he resolved to spare no pains, nor lose any 
opportunity of improving or advancing himself in it. 

The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora 
stood at her window, a coach and six passed by, which she 
declared to be the completest, genteelest, prettiest equipage 
she ever saw; adding these remarkable words, “ O, I am in 
love with that equipage! ” which, though her friend Florella 
at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since remem¬ 
bered. 

In the evening an assembly was held, which Leonora hon¬ 
oured with her company; but intended to pay her dear Ho¬ 
ratio the compliment of refusing to dance in his absence. 

O, why have not women as good resolution to maintain 
their vows as they have often good inclinations in making 
them! 

The gentleman who owned the coach and six came to the 
assembly. His clothes were as remarkably fine as his equi¬ 
page could be. He soon attracted the eyes of the company; 

88 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


all the smarts, all the silk waistcoats with silver and gold 
edgings, were eclipsed in an instant. 

“ Madam,” said Adams, “ if it be not impertinent, I should 
be glad to know how this gentleman was drest.” 

Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on a cut 
velvet coat of a cinnamon colour, lined with a pink satin, 
embroidered all over with gold; his waistcoat, which was 
cloth of silver, was embroidered with gold likewise. I can¬ 
not be particular as to the rest of his dress; but it was all in 
the French fashion, for Bellarmine (that was his name) was 
just arrived from Paris. 

This fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of 
every lady in the assembly than Leonora did his. He had 
scarce beheld her, but he stood motionless and fixed as a 
statue, or at least would have done so if good breeding had 
permitted him. However, he carried it so far before he had 
power to correct himself, that every person in the room easily 
discovered where his admiration was settled. The other ladies 
began to single out their former partners, all perceiving who 
would be Bellarmine’s choice; which they however endea¬ 
voured, by all possible means, to prevent: many of them say¬ 
ing to Leonora, “ O madam! I suppose we shan’t have the 
pleasure of seeing you dance to-night; ” and then crying out, 
in Bellarmine’s hearing, “ O! Leonora will not dance, I assure 
you: her partner is not here.” One maliciously attempted to 
prevent her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that 
so she might be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down; 
but this scheme proved abortive. 

Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and 
envied by every woman present. Her little heart began to 
flutter within her, and her head was agitated with a convul¬ 
sive motion: she seemed as if she would speak to several of 
her acquaintance, but had nothing to say; for, as she would 
not mention her present triumph, so she could not disengage 
her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. She 
had never tasted anything like this happiness. She had be¬ 
fore known what it was to torment a single woman; but to be 
hated and secretly cursed by a whole assembly was a joy 
reserved for this blessed moment. As this vast profusion 
of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was 

89 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


nothing so foolish as her behaviour: she played a thousand 
childish tricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and 
her face into several laughs, without any reason. In a word, 
her carriage was as absurd as her desires, which were to 
affect an insensibility of the stranger’s admiration, and at the 
same time a triumph from that admiration, over every woman 
in the room. 

In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having inquired who 
she was, advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the 
honour of dancing with her, which she, with as low a curtesy, 
immediately granted. She danced with him all night, and 
enjoyed perhaps the highest pleasure that she was capable of 
feeling. 

At these words, Adams fetched a deep groan, which 
frighted the ladies, who told him, they hoped he was not 
ill. He answered, he groaned only for the folly of Leonora. 

Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the 
morning, but not to rest. She tumbled and tossed in her 
bed, with very short intervals of sleep, and those entirely 
filled with dreams of the equipage and fine clothes she had 
seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which had been the 
subject of their conversation. 

In the afternoon Bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, 
came to wait on her. He was indeed charmed with her 
person, and was, on inquiry, so well pleased with the cir¬ 
cumstances of her father (for he himself, notwithstanding all 
his finery, was not quite so rich as a Croesus or an Attalus). 
—“ Attalus,” says Mr Adams : “ but pray how came you ac¬ 
quainted with these names ? ” The lady smiled at the question, 
and proceeded. He was so pleased, I say, that he resolved 
to make his addresses to her directly. He did so accordingly, 
and that with so much warmth and briskness, that he quickly 
baffled her weak repulses, and obliged the lady to refer him 
to her father, who, she knew, would quickly declare in favour 
of a coach and six. 

Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and ten¬ 
derness, been so long obtaining, the French-English Bellar¬ 
mine with gaiety and gallantry possessed himself of in an 
instant. In other words, what modesty had employed a full 
year in raising, impudence demolished in twenty-four hours. 

9 ° 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


Here Adams groaned a second time; but the ladies, who 
began to smoke, took no notice. 

From the opening of the assembly till the end of Bellar- 
mine’s visit, Leonora had scarce one thought of Horatio; 
but he now began, though an unwelcome guest, to enter 
into her mind. She wished she had seen the charming Bel- 
larmine and his charming equipage before matters had gone 
no far. “Yet why,” says she, “should I wish to have seen 
him before; or what signifies it that I have seen him now? 
Is not Horatio my lover, almost my husband? Is he not as 
handsome, nay handsomer, than Bellarmine? Ay, but Bel- 
larmine is the genteeler, and the finer man; yes, that he must 
be allowed. Yes, yes, he is that certainly. But did not I, 
no longer ago than yesterday, love Horatio more than all 
the world? Ay, but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. 
But doth not Horatio dote on me, and may he not in despair 
break his heart if I abandon him? Well, and hath not Bel¬ 
larmine a heart to break too? Yes, but I promised Horatio 
first; but that was poor Bellarmine’s misfortune; if I had 
seen him first, I should certainly have preferred him. Did not 
the dear creature prefer me to every woman in the assembly, 
when every she was laying out for him? When was it in 
Horatio's power to give me such an instance of affection? 
Can he give me an equipage, or any of those things which 
Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How vast is the 
difference between being the wife of a poor counsellor and 
the wife of one of Bellarmine’s fortune! If I marry Horatio, 
I shall triumph over no more than one rival; but by marry¬ 
ing Bellarmine I shall be the envy of all my acquaintance. 
What happiness! But can I suffer Horatio to die? for he 
hath sworn he cannot survive my loss: but perhaps he may 
not die: if he should, can I prevent it? Must I sacrifice 
myself to him? besides, Bellarmine may be as miserable for 
me too.” She was thus arguing with herself, when some 
young ladies called her to the walks, and a little relieved her 
anxiety for the present. 

The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in pres¬ 
ence of her aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion 
for Leonora. He was no sooner withdrawn than the old 
lady began to advise her niece on this occasion. “ You see, 

9 1 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


child,” says she, “what fortune hath thrown in your way; 
and I hope you will not withstand your own preferment.” 
Leonora, sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, 
when she knew her engagements to Horatio. “ Engagements 
to a fig! ” cried the aunt; “ you should thank Heaven on 
your knees that you have it yet in your power to break them. 
Will any woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride 
in a coach or walk on foot all the days of her life? But 
Bellarmine drives six, and Horatio not even a pair.”—“ Yes, 
but, madam, what will the world say ? ” answered Leonora: 
“ will not they condemn me ? ”—“ The world is always on the 
side of prudence,” cries the aunt, “ and would surely condemn 
you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. 
O ! I know the world very well; and you show your ignorance, 
my dear, by your objection. O’ my conscience! the world 
is wiser. I have lived longer in it than you; and I assure you 
there is not anything worth our regard besides money; nor 
did I ever know one person who married from other con¬ 
siderations, who did not afterwards heartily repent it. Be¬ 
sides, if we examine the two men, can you prefer a sneaking 
fellow, who hath been bred at the University, to a fine gentle¬ 
man just come from his travels? All the world must allow 
Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman, positively a fine gentleman, 
and a handsome man.”—“ Perhaps, madam, I should not 
doubt, if I knew how to be handsomely off with the other.” 
—“ O ! leave that to me,” says the aunt. “ You know your 
father hath not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for 
my part I thought it might do well enough, not dreaming 
of such an offer; but I’ll disengage you: leave me to give the 
fellow an answer. I warrant you shall have no farther 
trouble.” 

Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt’s reasoning; 
and Bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed 
he should the next morning go to her father and propose the 
match, which she consented should be consummated at his 
return. 

The aunt retired soon after supper; and, the lovers being 
left together, Bellarmine began in the following manner: 
“ Yes, madam; this coat, I assure you, was made at Paris, 
and I defy the best English tailor even to imitate it. There 

9 2 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


is not one of them can cut, madam; they can’t cut. If you 
observe how this skirt is turned, and this sleeve: a clumsy 
English rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you 
like my liveries ? ” Leonora answered, she thought them very 
pretty. “ All French,” says he, “ I assure you, except the 
great-coats; I never trust anything more than a great-coat 
to an Englishman. You know one must encourage our own 
people what one can, especially as, before I had a place, I 
was in the country interest, he, he, he! Putt for myself, I 
would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather 
than wear a single rag of English work about me: and I am 
sure, after you have made one tour to Paris, you will be of 
the same opinion with regard to your own clothes. You can’t 
conceive what an addition a French dress would be to your 
beauty; I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since 
I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chamber¬ 
maids, he, he, he! ” 

With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine 
entertain his beloved Leonora, when the door opened on a 
sudden, and Horatio entered the room. Here ’tis impossible 
to express the surprize of Leonora. 

“ Poor woman! ” says Mrs Slipslop, “ what a terrible 
quandary she must be in! ”—“ Not at all,” says Mrs Grave- 
airs ; “ such sluts can never be confounded.”—“ She must 
have then more than Corinthian assurance,” said Adams; 
“ ay, more than Lais herself.” 

A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in the whole 
company. If the familiar entrance of Horatio struck the 
greatest astonishment into Bellarmine, the unexpected pres¬ 
ence of Bellarmine no less surprized Horatio. At length Leo¬ 
nora, collecting all the spirit she was mistress of, addressed 
herself to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the reason 
of so late a visit. “ I should, indeed,” answered he, “ have 
made some apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not 
my finding you in company assured me I do not break in 
upon your repose.” Bellarmine rose from his chair, traversed 
the room in a minuet step, and hummed an opera tune, while 
Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in a whisper if that 
gentleman was not a relation of hers; to which she answered 
;with a smile, or rather sneer, “ No, he is no relation of mine 

93 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


yet; ” adding “ she could not guess the meaning of his ques¬ 
tion.” Horatio told her softly, it did not arise from jeal¬ 
ousy.—“Jealousy! I assure you, it would be very strange 
in a common acquaintance to give himself any of those airs.” 
These words a little surprized Horatio; but, before he had 
time to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told 
her, he feared he interrupted some business between her 
and the gentleman. “ I can have no business,” said she, “ with 
the gentleman, nor any other, which need be any secret to 
you.” 

“ You’ll pardon me,” said Horatio, “ if I desire to know 
who this gentleman is who is to be intrusted with all our 
secrets.”—“ You’ll know soon enough,” cries Leonora; “ but 
I can’t guess what secrets can ever pass between us of such 
mighty consequence.”—“ No, madam! ” cries Horatio; “ I am 
sure you would not have me understand you in earnest.”— 
“ ’Tis indifferent to me,” says she, “ how you understand me; 
but I think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be understood 
at all, at least when people find one engaged: though one’s 
servants do not deny one, one may expect a well-bred person 
should soon take the hint.” “ Madam,” said Horatio, “ I did 
not imagine any engagement with a stranger, as it seems this 
gentleman is, would have made my visit impertinent, or that 
any such ceremonies were to be preserved between persons 
in our situation.” “ Sure you are in a dream,” says she, “ or 
would persuade me that I am in one. I know no pretensions 
a common acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies 
of good breeding.” “ Sure,” said he, “ I am in a dream; for 
it is impossible I should be really esteemed a common ac¬ 
quaintance by Leonora, after what has passed between us ? ” 
“ Passed between us! Do you intend to affront me before 
this gentleman ? ” “ D—n me, affront the lady,” says Bellar¬ 
mine, cocking his hat, and strutting up to Horatio: “ does 
any man dare affront this lady before me, d—n me ? ” 
“ Hark’ee, sir,” says Horatio, “ I would advise you to lay 
aside that fierce air; for I am mightily deceived if this lady 
has not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing.” 
“ Sir,” said Bellarmine, “ I have the honour to be her protec¬ 
tor ; and, d—n me, if I understand your meaning.” “ Sir,” 
answered Horatio, “she is rather your protectress; but give 

94 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


yourself no more airs, for you see I am prepared for you ” 
(shaking his whip at him). “Oh! serviteur tres humble” 
says Bellarmine: “ Je vous entend parfaitment bien.” At 
which time the aunt, who had heard of Horatio’s visit, entered 
the room, and soon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced 
him that he was never more awake in his life, and that nothing 
more extraordinary had happened in his three days’ absence 
than a small alteration in the affections of Leonora; who now 
burst into tears, and wondered what reason she had given 
him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired 
Bellarmine to withdraw with him; but the ladies prevented 
it by laying violent hands on the latter; upon which the 
former took his leave without any great ceremony, and de¬ 
parted, leaving the lady with his rival to consult for his 
safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretion might have 
endangered; but the aunt comforted her with assurances that 
Horatio would not venture his person against so accomplished 
a cavalier as Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would 
seek revenge in his own way, and the most they had to appre¬ 
hend from him was an action. 

They at length therefore agreed to permit Bellarmine to 
retire to his lodgings, having first settled all matters relating 
to the journey which he was to undertake in the morning, 
and their preparations for the nuptials at his return. 

But, alas! as wise men have observed, the seat of valour 
is not the countenance; and many a grave and plain man 
will, on a just provocation, betake himself to that mischievous 
metal, cold iron; while men of a fiercer brow, and sometimes 
with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will more prudently 
decline it. 

Leonora was waked in the morning, from a visionary coach 
and six, with the dismal account that Bellarmine was run 
through the body by Horatio; that he lay languishing at an 
inn, and the surgeons had declared the wound mortal. She 
immediately leaped out of the bed, danced about the room in 
a frantic manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the 
agonies of despair; in which sad condition her aunt, who 
likewise arose at the news, found her. The good old lady 
applied her utmost art to comfort her niece. She told her, 
while there was life there was hope; but that if he should 

95 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


die her affliction would be of no service to Bellarmine, and 
would only expose herself, which might, probably, keep her 
some time without any future offer; that, as matters had 
happened, her wisest way would be to think no more of 
Bellarmine, but to endeavour to regain the affections of Ho¬ 
ratio.” “ Speak not to me,” cried the disconsolate Leonora; 
“is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine has lost his life? 
Have not these cursed charms (at which words she looked 
steadfastly in the glass) been the ruin of the most charming 
man of this age? Can I ever bear to contemplate my own 
face again (with her eyes still fixed on the glass) ? Am I 
not the murderess of the finest gentleman ? No other woman 
in the town could have made any impression on him.” 
“ Never think of things past,” cries the aunt: “ think of re¬ 
gaining the affections of Horatio.” “ What reason,” said the 
niece, “have I to hope he would forgive me? No, I have 
lost him as well as the other, and it was your wicked advice 
which was the occasion of all; you seduced me, contrary to 
my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio (at which words 
she burst into tears) ; you prevailed upon me, whether I 
would or no, to give up my affections for him; had it not 
been for you Bellarmine never would have entered into my 
thoughts; had not his addresses been backed by your persua¬ 
sions they never would have made any impression on me; 
I should have defied all the fortune and equipage in the 
world; but it was you, it was you, who got the better of my 
youth and simplicity, and forced me to lose my dear Horatio 
for ever.” 

The aunt was almost borne down with this torrent of 
words; she however rallied all the strength she could, and, 
drawing her mouth up in a purse, began: “ I am not sur¬ 
prized, niece, at this ingratitude. Those who advise young 
women for their interest must always expect such a return: 
I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off 
your match with Horatio at any rate.”—“That may not be 
in your power yet,” answered Leonora, “ though it is very 
ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it, after the presents 
you have received from him.” (For indeed true it is, that 
many presents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed 
from Horatio to the old lady; but as true it is, that Bellar- 

96 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


mine, when he breakfasted with her and her niece, had com¬ 
plimented her with a brilliant from his finger, of much greater 
value than all she had touched of the other.) 

The aunt’s gall was on float to reply, when a servant brought 
a letter into the room, which Leonora, hearing it came from 
Bellarmine, with great eagerness opened, and read as follows: 

“ Most divine Creature, —The wound which I fear you 
have heard I received from my rival is not like to be so fatal 
as those shot into my heart which have been fired from your 
eyes, tout brilliant. Those are the only cannons by which 
I am to fall! for my surgeon gives me hopes of being soon 
able to attend your ruelle; till when, unless you would do 
me an honour which I have scarce the hardiesse to think of, 
your absence will be the greatest anguish which can be felt 
by, madam, avec toute le respecte in the world, your most 
obedient, most absolute devote, Bellarmine.” 

As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bellarmine’s 
recovery, and that the gossip Fame had, according to custom, 
so enlarged his danger, she presently abandoned all further 
thoughts of Horatio, and was soon reconciled to her aunt, 
who received her again into favour, with a more Christian 
forgiveness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is pos¬ 
sible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her 
niece had given her concerning the presents. She might ap¬ 
prehend such rumours, should they get abroad, might injure 
a reputation which, by frequenting church twice a-day, and 
preserving the utmost rigour and strictness in her counte¬ 
nance and behaviour for many years, she had established. 

Leonora’s passion returned now for Bellarmine with 
greater force, after its small relaxation, than ever. She pro¬ 
posed to her aunt to make him a visit in his confinement, 
which the old lady, with great and commendable prudence, 
advised her to decline: “ For,” says she, “ should any accident 
intervene to prevent your intended match, too forward a be¬ 
haviour with this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. 
Every woman, till she is married, ought to consider of, and 
provide against, the possibility of the affair’s breaking off.” 
Leonora said, she should be indifferent to whatever might 




THE ADVENTURES OF 


happen in such a case; for she had now so absolutely placed 
her affections on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it 
was her misfortune to lo‘se him, she should for ever abandon 
all thoughts of mankind. She therefore resolved to visit him, 
notwithstanding all the prudent advice of her aunt to the 
contrary, and that very afternoon executed her resolution. 

The lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach 
drove into the inn where the company were to dine, sorely 
to the dissatisfaction of Mr Adams, whose ears were the most 
hungry part about him; he being, as the reader may perhaps 
guess, of an insatiable curiosity and heartily desirous of 
hearing the end of this amour, though he professed he could 
scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a disposition. 


CHAPTER V. 

A DREADFUL QUARREL WHICH HAPPENED AT THE INN WHERE 
THE COMPANY DINED, WITH ITS BLOODY CONSEQUENCES TO 
MR ADAMS. 

AS soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, 
Xjl Mr Adams, as was his custom, made directly to the kit¬ 
chen, where he found Joseph sitting by the fire, and the hostess 
anointing his leg; for the horse which Mr Adams had bor¬ 
rowed of his clerk had so violent a propensity to kneeling, 
that one would have thought it had been his trade, as well 
as his master’s; nor would he always give any notice of such 
his intention; he was often found on his knees when the 
rider least expected it. This foible, however, was of no great 
inconvenience to the parson, who was accustomed to it; and, 
as his legs almost touched the ground when he bestrode the 
beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself forward 
on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never 
received any mischief; the horse and he frequently rolling 
many paces’ distance, and afterwards both getting up and 
meeting as good friends as ever. 

Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, 
though an excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage 

9 8 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


himself; but falling with his leg under the beas 
a violent contusion, to which the good woman wa. 
have said, applying a warm hand, with some camph 
spirits, just at the time when the parson entered the kite. 

He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph’s misfo. 
tune before the host likewise entered. He was by no means 
of Mr Tow-wouse’s gentle disposition; and was, indeed, per¬ 
fect master of his house, and everything in it but his guests. 

This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to 
the appearance of a traveller, from “ God bless your honour,” 
down to plain “ Coming presently,” observing his wife on her 
knees to a footman, cried out, without considering his cir¬ 
cumstances, “ What a pox is the woman about ? why don’t 
you mind the company in the coach? Go and ask them 
what they will have for dinner.” “ My dear,” says she, “ you 
know they can have nothing but what is at the fire, which 
will be ready presently; and really the poor young man’s 
leg is very much bruised.” At which words she fell to chafing 
more violently than before: the bell then happening to ring, 
he damn’d his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and 
not stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the 
young fellow’s leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, 
within twenty miles he would find a surgeon to cut it off. 
Upon these words, Adams fetched two strides across the 
room; and snapping his fingers over his head, muttered aloud, 
he would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for 
he believed the devil had more humanity. These words occa¬ 
sioned a dialogue between Adams and the host, in which there 
were two or three sharp replies, till Joseph bade the latter 
know how to behave himself to his betters. At which the 
host (having first strictly surveyed Adams) scornfully re¬ 
peated the word betters, flew into a rage, and, telling Joseph 
he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to 
walk into it, offered to lay violent hands on him; which 
perceiving, Adams dealt him so sound a compliment over his 
face with his fist, that the blood immediately gushed out of 
his nose in a stream. The host, being unwilling to be out¬ 
done in courtesy, especially by a person of Adams’s figure, 
returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson’s 
nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. Upon which 

99 


L.ofC. 


THE ADVENTURES 09 

^sailed his antagonist, and with another stroke laid 
.wling on the floor. 

hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband 
x ved, seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, 
.stened presently to his assistance, or rather to revenge the 
blow, which, to all appearance, was the last he would ever 
receive; when lo! a pan full of hog’s blood, which unluckily 
stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her hands. She 
seized it in her fury, and, without any reflection, discharged 
it into the parson’s face; and with so good an aim, that 
much the greater part first saluted his countenance, and 
trickled thence in so large a current down to his beard, and 
over his garments, that a more horrible spectacle was hardly 
to be seen, or even imagined. All which was perceived by 
Mrs Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant. This 
good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool 
and patient as perhaps was required to ask many questions on 
this occasion, flew with great impetuosity at the hostess’s cap, 
which, together with some of her hair, she plucked from her 
head in a moment, giving her, at the same time, several 
hearty cuffs in the face; which, by frequent practice on the 
inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack of de¬ 
livering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise 
from his chair; the parson was employed in wiping the blood 
from his eyes, which had entirely blinded him; and the 
landlord was but just beginning to stir; whilst Mrs Slipslop, 
holding down the landlady’s face with her left hand, made 
so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman 
began to roar, in a key which alarmed all the company in 
the inn. 

There happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the 
ladies who arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who 
were present at Mr Tow-wouse’s when Joseph was detained 
for his horse’s meat, and whom we have before mentioned 
to have stopt at the alehouse with Adams. There was like¬ 
wise a gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy; all 
whom the horrid outcry of murder presently brought into 
the kitchen, where the several combatants w r ere found in the 
postures already described. 

It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the 
ioo 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


conquerors being satisfied with the vengeance they had taken, 
and the conquered having no appetite to renew the fight. The 
principal figure, and which engaged the eyes of all, was 
Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which the 
whole company concluded to be his own, and consequently 
imagined him no longer for this world. But the host, who 
had now recovered from his blow, and was risen from the 
ground, soon delivered them from this apprehension, by 
damning his wife for wasting the hog’s puddings, and telling 
her all would have been very well if she had not intermeddled, 
like a b— as she was; adding, he was very glad the gentle¬ 
woman had paid her, though not half what she deserved. The 
poor woman had indeed fared much the worse; having, besides 
the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a quantity of hair, which 
Mrs Slipslop in triumph held in her left hand. 

The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs Grave-airs, de¬ 
sired her not to be frightened; for here had been only a little 
boxing, which he said, to their disgracia, the English were 
accustomata to: adding, it must be, however, a sight some¬ 
what strange to him, who was just come from Italy; the 
Italians not being addicted to the cuffardo, but bastonza, says 
he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked 
like the ghost of Othello, bid him not shake his gory locks 
at him, for he could not say he did it. Adams very inno¬ 
cently answered, “ Sir, I am far from accusing you.” He then 
returned to the lady, and cried, “ I find the bloody gentle¬ 
man is uno insipido del nullo senso. Damnato di me, if I have 
seen such a spectaculo in my way from Viterbo.” 

One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host the oc¬ 
casion of this bustle, and being assured by him that Adams 
had struck the first blow, whispered in his ear, he’d warrant 
he would recover. “ Recover! master,” said the host smiling: 
“ yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying with a blow T or two 
neither; I am not such a chicken as that.”—“ Pugh! ” said 
the gentleman, “ I mean you will recover damages in that 
action which, undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon as a 
writ can be returned from London; for you look like a man 
of too much spirit and courage to suffer any one to beat you 
without bringing your action against him: he must be a 
scandalous fellow indeed who would put up with a drubbing 


IOI 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he hath drawn 
blood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury will give 
damages for that too. An excellent new coat upon my word; 
and now not worth a shilling! I don’t care,” continued he, 
“to intermeddle in these cases; but you have a right to my 
evidence; and if I am sworn, I must speak the truth. I saw 
you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from your 
nostrils. You may take your own opinion; but was I in 
your circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey 
an ounce of gold into my pocket: remember I don’t advise you 
to go to law; but if your jury were Christians, they must 
give swinging damages. That’s all.”—“ Master,” cried the 
host, scratching his head, “ I have no stomach to law, I thank 
you I have seen enough of that in the parish, where two of 
my neighbours have been at law about a house, till they have 
both lawed themselves into a gaol.” At which words he turned 
about, and began to inquire again after his hog’s puddings; 
nor would it probably have been a sufficient excuse for his 
wife, that she spilt them in his defence, had not some awe 
of the company, especially of the Italian traveller, who was 
a person of great dignity, withheld his rage. 

Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was em¬ 
ployed, as we have seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, 
the other was no less hearty on the side of Mr Adams, whom 
he advised to bring his action immediately. He said the assault 
of the wife was in law the assault of the husband, for they 
were but one person; and he was liable to pay damages, which 
he said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition 
appeared. Adams answered, If it was true that they were 
but one person, he had assaulted the wife; for he was sorry to 
own he had struck the husband the first blow. “ I am sorry 
you own it too,” cries the gentleman; “ for it could not pos¬ 
sibly appear to the court; for here was no evidence present 
but the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your 
friend, and would consequently say nothing but what made 
for }'OU.”—“ How, sir,” says Adams, “ do you take me for 
a villain, who would prosecute revenge in cold blood, and use 
unjustifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me, and my 
order, I should think you affronted both.” At the word 
order, the gentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of 


102 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


any modern order of knights) ; and, turning hastily about, 
said, every man knew his own b.usiness. 

Matters being now composed, the company retired to their 
several apartments; the two gentlemen congratulating each 
other on the success of their good offices in procuring a per¬ 
fect reconciliation between the contending parties; and the 
traveller went to his repast, crying, “ As the Italian poet says, 

‘ Je vox very well que tutta e pace, 

So send up dinner, good Boniface.’ ” 

The coachman began now to grow importunate with his 
passengers, whose entrance into the coach was retarded by 
Miss Grave-airs insisting, against the remonstrances of all the 
rest, that she would not admit a footman into the coach; for 
poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A young lady, 
who was, as it seems, an earl’s grand-daughter, begged it with 
almost tears in her eyes. Mr Adams prayed, and Mrs Slipslop 
scolded; but all to no purpose. She said, she would not de¬ 
mean herself to ride with a footman: that there were wag¬ 
gons on the road: that if the master of the coach desired it, 
she would pay for two places; but would suffer no such fellow 
to come in.”—“ Madam,” says Slipslop, “ I am sure no one 
can refuse another coming into a stage-coach.”—“ I don’t 
know, madam,” says the lady; “ I am not much used to stage¬ 
coaches ; I seldom travel in them.”—“ That may be, madam,” 
replied Slipslop; “ very good people do; and some people’s 
betters, for aught I know.” Miss Grave-airs said, some folks 
might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to some people 
that were their betters, which did not become them; for her 
part, she was not used to converse with servants. Slipslop 
returned, some people kept no servants to converse with; for 
her part, she thanked Heaven she lived in a family where 
there were a great many, and had more under her own com¬ 
mand than any paltry little gentlewoman in the kingdom. Miss 
Grave-airs cried, she believed her mistress would not encour¬ 
age such sauciness to her betters. “ My betters,” says Slip¬ 
slop, “ who is my betters, pray ? ”—“ I am your betters,” 
answered Miss Grave-airs, “ and I’ll acquaint your mistress.” 
—At which Mrs Slipslop laughed aloud, and told her, her 

103 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


lady was one of the great gentry; and such little paltry gen¬ 
tlewomen as some folks, who travelled in stage-coaches, would 
not easily come at her. 

This smart dialogue between some people and some folks 
was going on at the coach-door when a solemn person, riding 
into the inn, and seeing Miss Grave-airs, immediately accosted 
her with “ Dear child, how do you ? ” She presently answered, 
“ O! papa, I am glad you have overtaken me.”—“ So am I,” 
answered he; “ for one of our coaches is just at hand; and, 
there being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the 
stage unless you desire it.”—“ How can you imagine I should 
desire it ? ” says she; so, bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, 
if she pleased, she took her father by the hand, who was 
just alighted, and walked with him into a room. 

Adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, if he 
knew who the gentleman was? The coachman answered, he 
was now a gentleman, and kept his horse and man. “ But 
times are altered, master,” said he; “ I remember when he was 
no better born than myself.”—“ Aye! aye! ” says Adams. 
“ My father drove the squire’s coach,” answered he, “ when 
that very man rode postilion; but he is now his steward; and 
a great gentleman.” Adams then snapped his fingers, and 
cried, he thought she was some such trollop. 

Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs Slipslop with this good 
news, as he imagined it; but it found a reception different 
from what he expected. The prudent gentlewoman, who 
despised the anger of Miss Grave-airs whilst she conceived 
her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune, now she 
heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great family 
in her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with the 
mistress. She wished she had not carried the dispute so far, 
and began to think of endeavouring to reconcile herself to 
the young lady before she left the inn; when, luckily, the 
scene at London, which the reader can scarce have forgotten, 
presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with such 
assurance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with 
her mistress. 

Everything being now adjusted, the company entered the 
coach, which was just on its departure, when one lady recol¬ 
lected she had left her fan, a second her gloves, a third a 

104 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


snuff-box, and a fourth a smelling-bottle behind her; to find 
all which occasioned some delay and much swearing to the 
coachman. 

As soon as the coach had left the inn the women all to¬ 
gether fell to the character of Miss Grave-airs; whom one of 
them declared she had suspected to be some low creature, 
from the beginning of their journey, and another affirmed she 
had not even the looks of a gentlewoman: a third warranted 
she was no better than she should be; and, turning to the 
lady who had related the story in the coach, said, “ Did you 
ever hear, madam, anything so prudish as her remarks ? 
Well, deliver me from the censoriousness of such a prude.” 
The fourth added, “ O, madam! all these creatures are censo¬ 
rious ; but for my part, I wonder where the wretch was bred; 
indeed, I must own I have seldom conversed with these mean 
kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to me; but 
to refuse the general desire of a whole company hath some¬ 
thing in it so astonishing, that, for my part, I own I should 
hardly believe it if my own ears had not been witnesses to 
it.”—“ Yes, and so handsome a young fellow,” cries Slipslop; 
“ the woman must have no compulsion in her: I believe she 
is more of a Turk than a Christian; I am certain, if she 
had any Christian woman’s blood in her veins, the sight of 
such a young fellow must have warmed it. Indeed, there are 
some wretched, miserable old objects, that turn one’s stomach; 
I should not wonder if she had refused such a one; I am 
as nice as herself, and should have cared no more than her¬ 
self for the company of stinking old fellows; but, hold up 
thy head, Joseph, thou art none of those; and she who hath 
not compulsion for thee is a Myhummetman, and I will main¬ 
tain it.” This conversation made Joseph uneasy as well as the 
ladies; who, perceiving the spirits which Mrs Slipslop was in 
(for indeed she was not a cup too low), began to fear the con¬ 
sequence; one of them therefore desired the lady to conclude 
the story. “ Aye, madam,” said Slipslop, “ I beg your lady¬ 
ship to give us that story you commensated in the morning; ” 
which request that well-bred woman immediately complied 
with. 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


CHAPTER VI. 

CONCLUSION OF THE UNFORTUNATE JILT. 

L EONORA, having once broke through the bounds which 
4 custom and modesty impose on her sex, soon gave an un¬ 
bridled indulgence to her passion. Her visits to Bellarmine 
were more constant, as well as longer, than his surgeon’s: in 
a word, she became absolutely his nurse; made his water- 
gruel, administered him his medicines; and, notwithstanding 
the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost en¬ 
tirely resided in her wounded lover’s apartment. 

The ladies of the town began to take her conduct under 
consideration: it was the chief topic of discourse at their 
tea-tables, and was very severely censured by the most part; 
especially by Lindamira, a lady whose discreet and starch 
carriage, together with a constant attendance at church three 
times a-day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks on 
her own reputation; for such was the envy that Lindamira’s 
virtue had attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict be¬ 
haviour and strict inquiry into the lives of others, she had 
not been able to escape being the mark of some arrows her¬ 
self, which, however, did her no injury; a blessing, perhaps, 
owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male com¬ 
panions, and with two or three of whom she had been bar¬ 
barously and unjustly calumniated. 

“Not so unjustly neither, perhaps,” says Slipslop; “for 
the clergy are men, as well as other folks.” 

The extreme delicacy of Lindamira’s virtue was cruelly 
hurt by those freedoms which Leonora allowed herself: she 
said it was an affront to her sex; that she did not imagine 
it consistent with any woman’s honour to speak to the crea¬ 
ture, or to be seen in her company; and that, for her part, 
she should always refuse to dance at an assembly with her, 
for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand. 

But to return to my story: as soon as Bellarmine was 
recovered, which was somewhat within a month from his 
receiving the wound, he set out, according to agreement, for 

106 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


Leonora’s father’s, in order to propose the match, and settle 
all matters with him touching settlements, and the like. 

A little before his arrival the old gentleman had received 
an intimation of the affair by the following letter, which I 
can repeat verbatim , and which, they say, was written neither 
by Leonora nor her aunt, though it was in a woman’s hand. 
The letter was in these words :— 

“ Sir, —I am sorry to acquaint you that your daughter, 
Leonora, hath acted one of the basest as well as most simple 
parts with a young gentleman to whom she had engaged her¬ 
self, and whom she hath (pardon the word) jilted for another 
of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his superior figure. You 
may take what measures you please on this occasion; I have 
performed what I thought my duty; as I have, though un¬ 
known to you, a very great respect for your family.” 

The old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to an¬ 
swer this kind epistle; nor did he take any notice of it, after 
he had read it, till he saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the 
truth, one of those fathers who look on children as an 
unhappy consequence of their youthful pleasures; which, as 
he would have been delighted not to have had attend them, 
so was he no less pleased with any opportunity to rid him¬ 
self of the incumbrance. He passed, in the world’s language, 
as an exceeding good father; being not only so rapacious 
as to rob and plunder all mankind to the utmost of his power, 
but even to deny himself the conveniences, and almost neces¬ 
saries, of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire 
of raising immense fortunes for his children: but in fact it 
was not so; he heaped up money for its own sake only, and 
looked on his children as his rivals, who were to enjoy his be¬ 
loved mistress when he was incapable of possessing her, and 
which he would have been much more charmed with the 
power of carrying along with him; nor had his children any 
other security of being his heirs than that the law would con¬ 
stitute them such without a will, and that he had not affection 
enough for any one living to take the trouble of writing one. 

To this gentleman came Bellarmine, on the errand I have 
mentioned. His person, his equipage, his family, and his 
estate, seemed to the father to make him an advantageous 
match for his daughter: he therefore very readily accepted 

107 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


his proposals: but when Bellarmine imagined the principal 
affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters of 
fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his counte¬ 
nance, saying, he resolved never to marry his daughter on a 
Smithfield match; that whoever had love for her to take her 
would, when he died, find her share of his fortune in his 
coffers; but he had seen such examples of undutifulness hap¬ 
pen from the too early generosity of parents, that he had made 
a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived. He com¬ 
mended the saying of Solomon, he that spareth the rod spoil- 
eth the child; but added, he might have likewise asserted, 
that he that spareth the purse saveth the child. He then 
ran into a discourse on the extravagance of the youth of the 
age; whence he launched into a dissertation on horses; and 
came at length to commend those Bellarmine drove. That 
fine gentleman, who at another season would have been well 
enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very 
eager to resume the circumstance of fortune. He said, he had 
a very high value for the young lady, and would receive her 
with less than he would any other whatever; but that even 
his love to her made some regard to worldly matters neces¬ 
sary; for it would be a most distracting sight for him to see 
her, when he had the honour to be her husband, in less than 
a coach and six. The old gentleman answered, “ Four will 
do, four will do; ” and then took a turn from horses to ex¬ 
travagance and from extravagance to horses, till he came 
round to the equipage again; whither he was no sooner ar¬ 
rived than Bellarmine brought him back to the point; but all 
to no purpose; he made his escape from that subject in a 
minute; till at last the lover declared, that in the present situ¬ 
ation of his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved 
Leonora more than tout le monde, to marry her without any 
fortune. To which the father answered, he was sorry that his 
daughter must lose so valuable a match; that, if he had an in¬ 
clination, at present it was not in his power to advance a 
shilling: that he had had great losses, and been at great ex¬ 
penses on projects; which, though he had great expectation 
from them, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not 
know what might happen hereafter, as on the birth of a son, 
or such accident; but he would make no promise, nor enter 

108 





JOSEPH ANDREWS 


into any article, for he would not break his vow for all the 
daughters in the world. 

In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, Bellar- 
mine, having tried every argument and persuasion which he 
could invent, and finding them all ineffectual, at length took 
his leave, but not in order to return to Leonora; he proceeded 
directly to his own seat, whence, after a few days’ stay, he 
returned to Paris, to the great delight of the French and the 
honour of the English nation. 

But as soon as he arrived at his home he presently de¬ 
spatched a messenger with the following epistle to Leonora: 

“ Adorable and Charmante, —I am sorry to have the hon¬ 
our to tell you I am not the heureux person destined for your 
divine arms. Your papa hath told me so with a politesse 
not often seen on this side Paris. You may perhaps guess 
his manner of refusing me. Ah, mon Dien! You will cer¬ 
tainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of delivering this 
triste message, which I intend to try the French air to cure 
the consequences of. A jamais! Cceur! Ange! An diable! 
If your papa obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see 
you at Paris; till when, the wind that flows from thence will 
be the warmest dans le monde, for it will consist almost en¬ 
tirely of my sighs. Adieu, ma princesse! Ah, Vamour! 

“ Bellarmine.” 

I shall not attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora’s condition 
when she received this letter. It is a picture of horror, which 
I should have as little pleasure in drawing as you in behold¬ 
ing. She immediately left the place where she was the sub¬ 
ject of conversation and ridicule, and retired to that house 
I showed you when I began the story; where she hath ever 
since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, perhaps, pity for 
her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to 
which the artifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and 
to which very young women are often rendered too liable by 
that blameable levity in the education of our sex. 

“ If I was inclined to pity her,” said a young lady in the 
coach, “ it wou) I be for the loss of Horatio; for I cannot dis¬ 
cern any misfc tune in her missing such a husband as Bellar- 
mine.” > 

109 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


“ Why, I must own/’ says Slipslop, “ the gentleman was 
little false-hearted; but howsumever, it was hard to have t\ 
lovers, and get never a husband at all. But pray, madai 
what became of Our-asho? ” 

He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath aj 
plied himself so strictly to his business, that he hath raised, 
hear, a very considerable fortune. And, what is remarkabl 
they say he never hears the name of Leonora without a sig 
nor hath ever uttered one syllable to charge her with her il 
conduct towards him. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A VERY SHORT CHAPTER, IN WHICH PARSON ADAMS WENT i 
GREAT WAY. 

T HE lady, having finished her story, received the thank: 

of the company; and now Joseph, putting his head ou 
of the coach, cried out, “ Never believe me if yonder be not 
our parson Adams walking along without his horse! ”—“ On 
my word, and so he is,” says Slipslop: “ and as sure as two¬ 
pence he hath left him behind at the inn.” Indeed, true 
it is, the parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence 
of mind; for he was so pleased with having got Joseph into 
the coach, that he never once thought of the beast in the 
stable; and, finding his legs as nimble as he desired, he 
sallied out, brandishing a crabstick, and had kept on before 
the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so 
that he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a 
mile distant from it. 

Mrs Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which 
he attempted, but in vain; for the faster he drove the faster 
ran the parson, often crying out, “ Aye, aye, catch me if you 
can; ” till at length the coachman swore he would as soon 
attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving the parson 
two or three hearty curses, he cried, “ Soft v, softly, boys/ 
to his horses, which the civil beasts immedia* dy obeyed. 

But we will be more courteous to our reac 3r than he was 


no 









JOSEPH ANDREWS 


o Mrs Slipslop; and, leaving the coach and its company to 
oursue their journey, we will carry our reader on after par¬ 
son Adams, who stretched forwards without once looking 
behind him, till, having left the coach full three miles in his 
rear, he came to a place where, by keeping the extremest 
track to the right, it was just barely possible for a human 
,creature to miss his way. This track however did he keep, 
as indeed he had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare 
possibilities, and, travelling in it about three miles over the 
plain, he arrived at the summit of a hill, whence looking a 
great way backwards, and perceiving no coach in sight, he 
sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling out his iEschylus, 
determined to wait here for its arrival. 

He had not sat long here before a gun going off very near, 
a little startled him; he looked up and saw a gentleman within 
a hundred paces taking up a partridge which he had just shot. 

Adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman 
which would have moved laughter in many; for his cassock 
had just again fallen down below his great coat, that is to 
say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts of his great coat 
descended no lower than half way down his thighs; but the 
gentleman’s mirth gave way to his surprize at beholding such 
a personage in such a place. 

Adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he 
had good sport, to which the other answered, “ Very little.”— 
“ I see, sir,” says Adams, “ you have smote one partridge; ” 
to which the sportsman made no reply, but proceeded to 
charge his piece. 

Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, 
which he at last broke by. observing that it was a delightful 
evening. The gentleman, who had at first sight conceived a 
very distasteful opinion of the parson, began, on perceiving a 
book in his hand and smoking likewise the information of the 
cassock, to change his thoughts, and made a small advance 
to conversation on his side by saying, “ Sir, I suppose you are 
not one of these parts ? ” 

Adams immediately told him, no; that he was a traveller, 
and invited by the beauty of the evening and the place to 
repose a little and amuse himself with reading. “ I may as 
well repose myself too,” said the sportsman, “ for I have been 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


out this whole afternoon, and the devil a bird have I seen till 
I came hither.” 

“ Perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts ? ” 
cries Adams. “ No, sir,” said the gentleman: “ the soldiers, 
who are quartered in the neighbourhood, have killed it all.” 
—“ It is very probable,” cries Adams, “ for shooting is their 
profession.”—“ Aye, shooting the game,” answered the other; 
“ but I don’t see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. 
I don’t like that affair of Carthagena; if I had been there, I 
believe I should have done other-guess things, d—n me: 
what’s a man’s life when his country demands it? a man who 
won’t sacrifice his life for his country deserves to be hanged, 
d—n me.” Which words he spoke with so violent a gesture, 
so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce a counte¬ 
nance, that he might have frightened a captain of trained- 
bands at the head of his company; but Mr Adams was not 
greatly subject to fear; he told him intrepidly that he very 
much approved his virtue, but disliked his swearing, and 
begged him not to addict himself to so bad a custom, without 
which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did. 
Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the gen¬ 
tleman he would willingly have gone many miles to have met 
a man of his generous way of thinking; that, if he pleased 
to sit down, he should be greatly delighted to commune with 
him; for, though he was a clergyman, he would himself be 
ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life for his country. 

The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the 
latter began, as in the following chapter, a discourse which 
we have placed by itself, as it is not only the most curious in 
this but perhaps in any other book. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A NOTABLE DISSERTATION BY MR ABRAHAM ADAMS; WHEREIN 
THAT GENTLEMAN APPEARS IN A POLITICAL LIGHT. 

“T DO assure you, sir” (says he, taking the gentleman by 
A the hand), “ I am heartily glad to meet with a man of your 
kidney; for, though I am a poor parson, I will be bold to 


112 






r . 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

say I am an honest man, and would not do an ill thing to lx 
made a bishop; nay, though it hath not fallen in my way to 
offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportu¬ 
nities of suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank 
Heaven for them; for I have had relations, though I say it, 
who made some figure in the world; particularly a nephew, 
who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a corporation. 
He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy; and 
I believe would do what 1 bade him to his dying day. In¬ 
deed, it looks like extreme vanity in me to affect being a man 
of such consequence as to have so great an interest in an 
alderman; but others have thought so too, as manifestly ap¬ 
peared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was, sending 
for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if I 
expected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew 
to vote for one Colonel Courtly, a gentleman whom I had 
never heard tidings of till that instant. I told the rector I 
had no power over my nephew’s vote (God forgive me for 
such prevarication!) ; that I supposed he would give it accord¬ 
ing to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavour 
to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me it was in 
vain to equivocate; that he knew I had already spoke to him 
in favour of Squire Fickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it 
was true I had; for it was at a season when the church was 
in danger, and when all good men expected they knew not 
what would happen to us all. I then answered boldly, if he 
thought I had given my promise, he affronted me in propos¬ 
ing any breach of it. Not to be too prolix; I persevered, 
and so did my nephew, in the esquire’s interest, who was 
chose chiefly through his means; and so I lost my curacy. 
Well, sir, but do you think the esquire ever mentioned a 
word of the church ? Ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam: within 
two years he got a place, and hath ever since lived in Lon¬ 
don ; where I have been informed (but God forbid I should 
believe that), that he never so much as goeth to church. I 
remained, sir, a considerable time without any cure, and lived 
a full month on one funeral sermon, which I preached on the 
indisposition of a clergyman; but this by the bye. At last, 
when Mr. Fickle got his place, Colonel Courtly stood again; 
and who should make interest for him but Mr. Fickle him- 

8 113 


I 


THE ADVENTURES OF 

{ 

self! that very identical Mr Fickle, who had formerly told me 
the colonel was an enemy to both the church and the state, 
had the confidence to solicit my nephew for him; and the col¬ 
onel himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, 
which I refused in favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us 
he would sacrifice everything to his country; and I believe he 
would, except his hunting, which he stuck so close to, that in 
five years together he went but twice up to parliament; and 
one of those times, I have been told, never was within sight of 
the House. However, he was a worthy man, and the best 
friend I ever had; for, by his interest with a bishop, he got 
me replaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of 
his own pocket to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish 
my house. He had our interest while he lived, which was not 
many years. On his death I had fresh applications made to 
me; for all the world knew the interest I had in my good 
nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation; and 
Sir Thomas Booby, buying the estate which had been Sir 
Oliver’s, proposed himself a candidate. He was then a 
young gentleman just come from his travels; and it did me 
good to hear him discourse on affairs which, for my part, 

I knew nothing of. If I had been master of a thousand votes 
he should have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his 
interest, and he was elected; and a very fine parliament-man 
he was. They tell me he made speeches of an hour long, and, 

I have been told, very fine ones; but he could never persuade 
the parliament to be of his opinion. Non omnia possumus 
omnes. He promised me a living, poor man! and I believe 
I should have had it, but an accident happened, which was, 
that my lady had promised it before, unknown to him. This, 
indeed, I never heard till afterwards; for my nephew, who 
died about a month before the incumbent, always told me I 
might be assured of it. Since that time, Sir Thomas, poor 
man, had always so much business, that he never could find 
leisure to see me. I believe it was partly my lady’s fault too, 
who did not think my dress good enough for the gentry at her 
table. However, I must do him the justice to say he never 
was ungrateful; and I have always found his kitchen, and his 
cellar too, open to me: many a time, after service on a Sun¬ 
day—for I preached at four churches—have I recruited my 

114 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


spirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew’s death, the 
corporation is in other hands; and I am not a man of that 
consequence I was formerly. I have now no longer any tal¬ 
ents to lay out in the service of my country; and to whom 
nothing is given, of him can nothing be required. However, 
on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an election, I 
throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I have 
the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas and the 
other honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all prom¬ 
ised me these five years to procure an ordination for a son 
of mine, who is now near thirty, hath an infinite stock of 
learning, and is, I thank Heaven, of an exceptionable life; 
though, as he was never at an university, the bishop refuses 
to ordain him. Too much care cannot indeed be taken in ad¬ 
mitting any to the sacred office; though I hope he will never 
act so as to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his God 
and his country to the utmost of his power, as I have endea¬ 
voured to do before him; nay, and will lay down his life 
whenever called to that purpose. I am sure I have educated 
him in those principles; so that I have acquitted my duty, 
and shall have nothing to answer for on that account. But 
I do not distrust him, for he is a good boy; and if Provi¬ 
dence should throw it in his way to be of as much consequence 
in a public light as his father once was, I can answer for 
him he will use his talents as honestly as I have done.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH THE GENTLEMAN DESCANTS ON BRAVERY AND HE¬ 
ROIC VIRTUE, TILL AN UNLUCKY ACCIDENT PUTS AN END 
TO THE DISCOURSE. 

T HE gentleman highly commended Mr Adams for his 
good resolutions, and told him, he hoped his son would 
tread in his steps; adding, that if he would not die for his 
country, he would not be worthy to live in it. “ I d make 
no more of shooting a man that would not die for his country, 
than—” 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


“ Sirsaid he, “ I have disinherited a nephew, who is in 
the army, because he would not exchange his commission and 
go to the West Indies. I believe the rascal is a coward, 
though he pretends to be in love forsooth. I would have all 
such fellows hanged, sir; I would have them hanged.” Adams 
answered, that would be too severe; that men did not make 
themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, 
the man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that reason 
and time might teach him to subdue it. He said, a man might 
be a coward at one time, and brave at another. “ Homer,” 
says he, “ who so well understood and copied nature, hath 
taught us this lesson; for Paris fights and Hector runs away. 
Nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history of later 
ages, no longer ago than the 705 th year of Rome, when the 
great Pompey, who had won so many battles and been hon¬ 
oured with so many triumphs, and of whose valour several 
authors, especially Cicero and Paterculus, have formed such 
eulogiums; this very Pompey left the battle of Pharsalia be¬ 
fore he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where he sat like 
the most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and yielded 
a victory, which was to determine the empire of the world, 
to Caesar. I am not much travelled in the history of modern 
times, that is to say, these last thousand years; but those who 
are can, I make no question, furnish you with parallel in¬ 
stances.” He concluded, therefore, that, had he taken any such 
hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he would con¬ 
sider better, and retract them. The gentleman answered with 
great warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, 
till, perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams what place he in¬ 
tended for that night? He told him, he waited there for the 
stage-coach. “ The stage-coach, sir! ” said the gentleman; 
“ They are all passed by long ago. You may see the last your¬ 
self almost three miles before us.”—“I protest and so they 
are,” cries Adams; “ then I must make haste and follow them.” 
The gentleman told him, he would hardly be able to overtake 
them; and that, if he did not know his way, he would be in 
danger of losing himself on the downs, for it would be pres¬ 
ently dark; and he might ramble about all night, and perhaps 
find himself farther from his journey's end in the morning 
than he was now. He advised him, therefore, to accompany 

116 




JOSEPH 'ANDREWS 


i 


im to his house, which was very little out of his way, assur- 
ng him that he would find some country fellow in his parish 
who would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he was 
going. Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, 
I the gentleman renewing his discourse on courage, and the in¬ 
famy of not being ready, at all times, to sacrifice our lives 
to our country. Night overtook them much about the same 
time as they arrived near some bushes; whence, on a sudden, 
they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a female 
voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his compa¬ 
nion’s hand. “ What are you doing ? ” said he. “ Doing! ” 
said Adams; “ I am hastening to the assistance of the poor 
creature whom some villains are murdering.”—“ You are not 
mad enough, I hope,” says the gentleman trembling: “ do you 
consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that the rob¬ 
bers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded with 
bullets ? This is no business of ours; let us make as much 
haste as possible out of the way, or we may fall into their 
hands ourselves.” The shrieks now increasing, Adams made 
no answer, but snapt his fingers, and, brandishing his crab- 
stick, made directly to the place whence the voice issued; and 
the man of courage made as much expedition towards his own 
home, whither he escaped in a very short time without once 
looking behind him; where we will leave him, to contemplate 
his own bravery, and to censure the want of it in others, and 
return to the good Adams, who, on coming up to the place 
whence the noise proceeded, found a woman struggling with 
a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost 
overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr Adams were not 
necessary to have formed a right judgment of this affair on 
the first sight. He did not therefore want the entreaties of 
the poor wretch to assist her; but, lifting up his crabstick, 
he immediately levelled a blow at that part of the ravisher’s 
head where, according to the opinion of the antients, the 
brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had un¬ 
doubtedly let forth, had not\Nature (who, as wise men have 
observed, equips all creatures with what is most expedient 
for them) taken a provident care (as she always doth with 
those she intends for encounters) to make this part of the 
head three times as thick as those of ordinary men who are 

IT 7 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


designed to exercise talents which are vulgarly called rational , 
and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged to leave 
some room for them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, those 
ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic 
calling, she hath an opportunity of thickening the bone, so as 
to make it less subject to any impression, or liable to be 
cracked or broken; and indeed, in some who are predestined 
to the command of armies and empires, she is supposed some¬ 
times to make that part perfectly solid.. 

As the game cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a 
hen, if perchance he espies another cock at hand, immediately 
quits his female, and opposes himself to his rival, so did the 
ravisher, on the information of the crabstick, immediately 
leap from the woman, and hasten to assail the man. He had 
no weapons but what Nature had furnished him with. How¬ 
ever, he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that part 
of Adams’s breast where the heart is lodged. Adams stag¬ 
gered at the violence of the blow, when, throwing away his 
staff, he likewise clenched that fist which we have before 
commemorated, and would have discharged it full in the breast 
of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with his 
left hand, at the same time darting his head (which some 
modern heroes of the lower class use, like the battering-ram 
of the antients, for a weapon of offence; another reason to 
admire the cunningness of Nature, in composing it of those 
impenetrable materials) ; dashing his head, I say, into the 
stomach of Adams, he tumbled him on his back; and, not 
having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have 
restrained him from any farther attack on his enemy till he 
was again on his legs, he threw himself upon him, and, lay¬ 
ing hold on the ground with his left hand, he with his right 
belaboured the body of Adams till he was weary, and indeed 
till he concluded (to use the language of fighting) “ that he 
had done his business; ” or, in the language of poetry, “ that 
he had sent him to the shades below; ” in plain English, “ that 
he was dead.” 

But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing 
as well as any boxing champion in the universe, lay still only 
to watch his opportunity; and now, perceiving his antagonist 
to pant with his labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, 

118 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


and with such success that he overturned him, and became 
his superior; wherf, fixing one of his knees in his breast, he 
cried out in an exulting voice, “ It is my turn now; ” and, 
after a few minutes’ constant application, he gave him so 
dexterous a blow just under his chin that the fellow no longer 
retained any motion, and Adams began to fear he had struck 
him once too often; for he often asserted he should be con¬ 
cerned to have the blood of even the wicked upon him. 

Adams got up and called aloud to the young woman. “ Be 
of good cheer, damsel,” said he, “ you are no longer in danger 
of your ravisher, who, I am terribly afraid, lies dead at my 
feet; but God forgive me what I have done in defence of 
innocence!” The poor wretch, who had been some time in 
recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, dur¬ 
ing the engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear 
even from running away, hearing her champion was victori¬ 
ous, came up to him, but not without apprehensions even of 
her deliverer; which, however, she was soon relieved from 
by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. They were both 
standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, 
and which Adams wished to see stir much more than the 
woman did, when he earnestly begged her to tell him by what 
misfortune she came, at such a time of night, into so lonely 
a place. She acquainted him, she was travelling towards 
London, and had accidentally met with the person from whom 
he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his 
journey to the same place, and would keep her company; 
an offer which, suspecting no harm, she had accepted; that 
he told her they were at a small distance from an inn where 
she might take up her lodging that evening, and he would 
show her a nearer way to it than by following the road; that 
if she had suspected him (which she did not, he spoke so 
kindly to her), being alone on these downs in the dark, she 
had no human means to avoid him; that therefore she put her 
whole trust in Providence, and walked on, expecting every 
moment to arrive at the inn; when on a sudden, being come 
to those bushes, he desired her to stop, and after some rude 
kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties, which she 
rejected, he laid violent hands on her, and was attempting to 
execute his wicked will, when, she thanked G—, he timely 

JI 9 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


came up and prevented him. Adams encouraged her for say¬ 
ing she had put her whole trust in Providence, and told her, 
he doubted not but Providence had sent him to her deliver¬ 
ance, as a reward for that trust. He wished indeed he had not 
deprived the wicked wretch of life, but G—’s will be done. 
He said, he hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse 
him in the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to 
acquit him in this. He was then silent, and began to consider 
with himself whether it would be properer to make his escape, 
or to deliver himself into the hands of justice; which medi¬ 
tation ended as the reader will see in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER X. 

GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE STRANGE CATASTROPHE OF THE 
PRECEDING ADVENTURE, WHICH DREW POOR ADAMS INTO 
FRESH CALAMITIES J AND WHO THE WOMAN WAS WHO OWED 
THE PRESERVATION OF HER CHASTITY TO HIS VICTORIOUS 
ARM. 

T HE silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night 
and loneliness of the place, struck dreadful apprehen¬ 
sion into the poor woman’s mind; she began to fear as great 
an enemy in her deliverer as he had delivered her from; and 
as she had not light enough to discover the age of Adams, and 
the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected he 
had used her as some very honest men have used their coun¬ 
try; and had rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in 
order to rifle her himself. Such were the suspicions she drew 
from his silence; but indeed they were ill-grounded. He 
stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely weighing in his 
mind the objections which might be made to either of the two 
methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his 
judgment sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to 
the other; for both seemed to him so equally advisable and 
so equally dangerous, that probably he would have ended 
his days, at least two or three of them, on that very spot, 
before he had taken any resolution; at length he lifted up 

120 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


his eye , and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantly 
addressed himself with Hens tu, traveller, hens tu! He pres¬ 
ently heard several voices, and perceived the light approach¬ 
ing toward him. The persons who attended the light began 
some to laugh, others to sing, and others to hollow, at which 
the woman testified some fear (for she had concealed her sus¬ 
picions of the parson himself) ; but Adams said, “ Be of good 
cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence 
which hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake 
the innocent.” These people, who now approached, were 
no other, reader, than a set of young fellows, who came to 
these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which they call bird¬ 
batting. This, if you are ignorant of it (as perhaps if thou 
hast never travelled beyond Kensington, Islington, Hackney, 
or the Borough, thou mayst be), I will inform thee, is per¬ 
formed by holding a large clapnet before a lantern, and at 
the same time beating the bushes; for the birds, when they are 
disturbed from their places of rest, or roost, immediately 
make to the light, and so are enticed within the net. Adams 
immediately told them what had happened, and desired them 
to hold the lantern to the face of the man on the ground, for 
he feared he had smote him fatally. But indeed his fears 
were frivolous; for the fellow, though he had been stunned 
by the last blow he received, had long since recovered his 
senses, and, finding himself quit of Adams, had listened atten¬ 
tively to the discourse between him and the young woman; 
for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he might 
likewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of suc¬ 
ceeding in his desires, which were moreover almost as well 
cooled by Mr Adams as they could have been by the young 
woman herself had he obtained his utmost wish. This fellow, 
who had a readiness at improving any accident, thought he 
might now play a better part than that of a dead man; and, 
accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face he 
leapt up, and, laying hold on Adams, cried out, “ No, villain, 
I am not dead, though you and your wicked whore might well 
think me so, after the barbarous cruelties you have exercised 
on me. Gentlemen,” said he, “you are luckily come to the 
assistance of a poor traveller, who would otherwise have been 
robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, who led 


121 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


me hither out of my way from the high-road, and both falling 
on me have used me as you see.” Adams was going to an¬ 
swer, when one of the young fellows cried, “ D—n them, let’s 
carry them both before the justice.” The poor woman be¬ 
gan to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice, but in vain. 
Three or four of them laid hands on him; and one holding 
the lantern to his face, they all agreed he had the most vil¬ 
lainous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney’s clerk, 
who was of the company, declared he was sure he had re¬ 
membered him at the bar. As to the woman, her hair was 
dishevelled in the struggle, and her nose had bled; so that 
they could not perceive whether she was handsome or ugly, 
but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. And 
searching her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for money, 
which the fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket 
a purse with some gold in it, which abundantly convinced 
them, especially as the fellow offered to swear to it. Mr 
Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny about 
him. This the clerk said was a great presumption that he 
was an old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the 
woman. To which all the rest readily assented. 

This accident promising them better sport than what they 
had proposed, they quitted their intention of catching birds, 
and unanimously resolved to proceed to the justice with the 
offenders. Being informed what a desperate fellow Adams 
was, they tied his hands behind him; and, having hid their 
nets among the bushes, and the lantern being carried before 
them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then 
began their march; Adams not only submitting patiently to 
his own fate, but comforting and encouraging his companion 
under her sufferings. 

Whilst they were on their way the clerk informed the rest 
that this adventure would prove a very beneficial one; for 
that they would all be entitled to their proportions of Sol. 
for apprehending the robbers. This occasioned a contention 
concerning the parts which they had severally borne in taking 
them; one insisting he ought to have the greatest share, for 
he had first laid his hands on Adams; another claiming a 
superior part for having first held the lantern to the man’s 
face on the ground, by which, he said, the whole was dis- 


122 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


covered. The clerk claimed four-fifths of the reward for hav¬ 
ing proposed to search the prisoners, and likewise the car- 
rying them before the justice: he said, indeed, in strict justice, 
he ought to have the whole. These claims, however, they at 
last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all 
to agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then 
debated what money should be allotted to the young fellow 
who had been employed only in holding the nets. He very 
modestly said, that he did not apprehend any large proportion 
would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow him 
something; he desired them to consider that they had assigned 
their nets to his care, which prevented him from being as for¬ 
ward as any in laying hold of the robbers (for so those in¬ 
nocent people were called); that if he had not occupied the 
the nets, some other must; concluding, however, that he 
should be contented with the smallest share imaginable, and 
should think that rather their bounty than his merit. But 
they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part 
whatever, the clerk particularly swearing, if they gave him 
a shilling they might do what they pleased with the rest; 
for he would not concern himself with the affair. This con¬ 
tention was so hot, and so totally engaged the attention of all 
the parties, that a dexterous nimble thief, had he been in Mr 
Adams’s situation, would have taken care to have given the 
justice no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art 
of a Shepherd to escape, especially as the darkness of the 
night would have so much befriended him; but Adams trusted 
rather to his innocence than his heels, and, without thinking 
of flight, which was easy, or resistance (which was impos¬ 
sible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besides the vil¬ 
lain himself, present), he walked with perfect resignation 
the way they thought proper to conduct him. 

Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during 
their journey; at last, poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his 
mind, he could not refrain sighing forth his name, which be¬ 
ing heard by his companion in affliction, she cried with some 
vehemence, “ Sure I should know that voice; you cannot cer¬ 
tainly, sir, be Mr Abraham Adams ? ”—“ Indeed, damsel,” 
says he, “that is my name; there is something also in your 
voice which persuades me I have heard it before.”—“ La! 

123 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


sir,” says she, “ don’t you remember poor Fanny ? ”—“ How, 
Fanny! ” answered Adams: “ indeed I very well remember 
you; what can have brought you hither ? ”—“ I have told you, 
sir,” replied she, “ I was travelling towards London; but I 
thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews; pray what is become 
of him ? ”—“ I left him, child, this afternoon,” said Adams, 
“ in the stage-coach, in his way towards our parish, whither 
he is going to see you.”—“ To see me! La, sir,” answered 
Fanny, “sure you jeer me; what should he be going to see 
me for?”—“Can you ask that?” replied Adams. “I hope, 
Fanny, you are not inconstant; I assure you he deserves much 
better of you.”—“ La! Mr Adams,” said she, “ what is Mr 
Joseph to me ? I am sure I never had any thing to say to him, 
but as one fellow-servant might to another.”—“ I am sorry to 
hear this,” said Adams; “ a virtuous passion for a young man 
is what no woman need be ashamed of. You either do not tell 
me truth, or you are false to a very worthy man.” Adams 
then told her what had happened at the inn, to which she lis¬ 
tened very attentively; and a sigh often escaped from her, 
notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to the contrary; nor 
could she prevent herself from asking a thousand questions, 
which would have assured any one but Adams, who never 
saw farther into people than they desired to let him, of the 
truth of a passion she endeavoured to conceal. Indeed, the 
fact was, that this poor girl, having heard of Joseph’s mis¬ 
fortune, by some of the servants belonging to the coach which 
we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at the inn while the 
poor youth was confined to his bed, that instant abandoned 
the cow she was milking, and, taking with her a little bundle 
of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth 
in her own purse, without consulting any one, immediately 
set forward in pursuit of one whom, notwithstanding her shy¬ 
ness to the parson, she loved with inexpressible violence, 
though with the purest and most delicate passion. This shy¬ 
ness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend her character 
to all our female readers, and not greatly surprize such of our 
males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the 
other sex, we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate. 


124 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


CHAPTER XI. 


WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM WHILE BEFORE THE JUSTICE. A 
CHAPTER VERY FULL OF LEARNING. 



HEIR fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dis- 


X pute concerning the division of the reward for appre¬ 
hending these innocent people, that they attended very little to 
their discourse. They were now arrived at the justice’s house, 
and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his worship 
that they had taken two robbers and brought them before 
him. The justice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, 
and had not yet finished his dinner, ordered them to carry 
the prisoners into the stable, whither they were attended by 
all the servants in the house, and all the people in the neigh¬ 
bourhood, who flocked together to see them with as much 
curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or 
that a rogue did not look like other people. 

The justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his 
cups, bethought himself of the prisoners; and, telling his 
company he believed they should have good sport in their 
examination, he ordered them into his presence. They had 
no sooner entered the room than he began to revile them, 
saying, that robberies on the highway were now grown so 
frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and 
assured them they both should be made examples of at the 
ensuing assizes. After he had gone on some time in this 
manner, he was reminded by his clerk, that it would be proper 
to take the depositions of the witnesses against them. Which 
he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the mean time. 
Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition 
of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice 
employed himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which 
he was seconded by all the company at table. One asked, 
whether she was to be indicted for a highway-man ? Another 
whispered in her ear, if she had not provided herself a great 
belly, he was at her service. A third said, he warranted she 
was a relation of Turpin. To which one of the company, a 
great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, 


125 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


he believed she was nearer related to Turpis; at which there 
was an universal laugh. They were proceeding thus with the 
poor girl, when somebody, smoking the cassock peeping forth 
from under the great-coat of Adams, cried out, “ What have 
we here, a parson?” “ How, sirrah,” says the justice, “do 
you go a robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell 
you your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy.” 
“ Yes,” said the witty fellow, “ he will have one benefit of 
clergy, he will be exalted above the heads of the people; ” 
at which there was a second laugh. And now the witty spark, 
seeing his jokes take, began to rise in spirits; and, turning 
to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, and, provoking him 
by giving the first blow, he repeated, 

“ Molle meum levibus cord est vilebile telis.” 

Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, 
told him, he deserved scourging for his pronunciation. The 
witty fellow answered, “ What do you deserve, doctor, for not 
being able to answer the first time? Why, IT1 give one, you 
blockhead, with an S. 

“ * Si licet, ut fulvum spectatur in ignibus haurum.’ ” 

“ What, canst not with an M neither ? Thou art a pretty 
fellow for a parson! Why didst not steal some of the par¬ 
son’s Latin as well as his gown ? ” Another at the table then 
answered, “ If he had, you would have been too hard for him; 
I remember you at the college a very devil at this sport; I 
have seen you catch a fresh man, for nobody that knew you 
would engage with you.” “ I have forgot those things now,” 
cried the wit. “ I believe I could have done pretty well for¬ 
merly. Let’s see, what did I end with ?—an M again—ay- 

“‘Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum! ” 

“ I could have done it once.” “ Ah! evil betide you, and so 
you can now,” said the other: “nobody in this country will 
undertake you.” Adams could hold no longer: “ Friend,” 
said he, “ I have a boy not above eight years old who would 
instruct thee that the last verse runs thus :— 


Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum 

126 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


“ I’ll hold thee a guinea of that,” said the wit, throwing the 
money on the table. “ And I’ll go your halves,” cries the 
other. “ Done,” answered Adams; but upon applying to his 
pocket he was forced to retract, and own he had no money 
about him; which set them all a laughing, and confirmed the 
triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more 
than the approbation he met with from the whole company, 
who told Adams he must go a little longer to school before 
he attempted to attack that gentleman in Latin. 

The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the 
fellow himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, 
delivered them to the justice; who, having sworn the several 
witnesses without reading a syllable, ordered his clerk to make 
the mittimus. 

Adams then said, he hoped he should not be condemned 
unheard. “ No, no,” cries the justice, “ you will be asked 
what you have to say for yourself when you come on your 
trial: we are not trying you now; I shall only commit you to 
gaol: if you can prove your innocence at ’size, you will be 
found ignoramus, and so no harm done.” “ Is it no pun¬ 
ishment, sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in 
gaol ? ” cries Adams: “ I beg you would at least hear me be¬ 
fore you sign the mittimus.” “ What signifies all you can 
say?” says the justice: “is it not here in black and white 
against you ? I must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow 
to take up so much of my time. So make haste with his 
mittimus.” 

The clerk now acquainted the justice that among other 
suspicious things, as a penknife, &c., found in Adams’s pocket, 
they had discovered a book written, as he apprehended, in 
cyphers: for no one could read a word in it. “ Ay,” says the 
justice, “ the fellow may be more than a common robber, he 
may be in a plot against the government. Produce the book.” 
Upon which the poor manuscript of ^Eschylus, which Adams 
had transcribed with his own hand, was brought forth; and 
the justice, looking at it, shook his head, and, turning to the 
prisoner, asked the meaning of those cyphers. “Cyphers?” 
answered Adams, “ it is a manuscript of ^Eschylus.” “ Who ? 
who?” said the justice. Adams repeated, “^Eschylus.” 
“ That is an outlandish name,” cried the clerk. “ A ficti- 

127 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


tious name rather, I believe,” said the justice. One of the 
company declared it looked very much like Greek. “ Greek? ” 
said the justice; “ why ’tis all writing.” “ No,” says the other, 
“ I don’t positively say it is so; for it is a very long time since 
I have seen any Greek.” “ There’s one,” says he, turning to 
the parson of the parish, who was present, “ will tell us imme¬ 
diately.” The parson, taking up the book, and putting on his 
spectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to him¬ 
self, and then pronounced aloud—“ Aye, indeed, it is a Greek 
manuscript; a very fine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt 
but it was stolen from the same clergyman from whom the 
rogue took the cassock.” “ What did the rascal mean by his 
^Eschylus?” says the justice. “Pooh!” answered the doc¬ 
tor, with a contemptuous grin, “ do you think that fellow knows 
anything of this book ? ^Eschylus ! ho! ho! ho! I see now 
what it is—a manuscript of one of the fathers. I know a 
nobleman who would give a great deal of money for such a 
piece of antiquity. Aye, aye, question and answer. The be¬ 
ginning is the catechism in Greek. Aye, aye, Pollaki toi: 

What’s your name ? ”-“ Aye, what’s your name ? ” says 

the justice to Adams; who answered, “ It is yEschylus, and I 
will maintain it.”—“ O! it is,” says the justice: “ make Mr 
yEschylus his mittimus. I will teach you to banter me with 
a false name.” 

One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, 
asked him, if he did not know Lady Booby? Upon which 
Adams, presently calling him to mind, answered in a rapture, 
“ O squire! are you there ? I believe you will inform his 
worship I am innocent.”—“ I can indeed say,” replied the 
squire, “ that I am very much surprized to see you in this 
situation:” and then, addressing himself to the justice, he 
said, “ Sir, I assure you Mr Adams is a clergyman, as he 
appears, and a gentleman of a very good character. I wish 
you would inquire a little farther into this affair; for I am 
convinced of his innocence.”—“ Nay,” says the justice, “ if he 
is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don’t 
desire to commit him, not I: I will commit the woman by 
herself, and take your bail for the gentleman: look into the 
book, clerk, and see how it is to take bail—come—and make 
the mittimus for the woman as fast as you can.”—“ Sir,” cries 

128 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


Adams, “ I assure you she is as innocent as myself.”—“ Per¬ 
haps,” said the squire, “ there may be some mistake: pray 
let us hear Mr "Adams’s relation.”—“ With all my heart,” 
answered the justice; “ and give the gentleman a glass to 
whet his whistle before he begins. I know how to behave 
myself to a gentleman as well as another. Nobody can say 
I have committed a gentleman since I have been in the com¬ 
mission.” Adams then began the narrative, in which, though 
he was very prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several 
hums and hahs of the justice, and his desire to repeat those 
parts which seemed to him most material. When he had 
finished, the justice, who, on what the squire had said, be¬ 
lieved every syllable of his story on his bare affirmation, not¬ 
withstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary, began 
to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, 
whom he ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the witness, 
long since finding what turn matters were likely to take, had 
privily withdrawn, without attending the issue. The justice 
now flew into a violent passion, and was hardly prevailed with 
not to commit the innocent fellows who had been imposed on 
as well as himself. He swore, they had best find out the 
fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before him 
within two days, or he would bind them all over to their 
good behaviour. They all promised to use their best endea¬ 
vours to that purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice 
insisted that Mr Adams should sit down and take a glass with 
him; and the parson of the parish delivered him back the 
manuscript without saying a word; nor would Adams, who 
plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she 
was, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid¬ 
servant of the house, who helped her to new dress and clean 
herself. 

The company in the parlour had not been long seated be¬ 
fore they were alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, 
where the persons who had apprehended Adams and Fanny 
had been regaling, according to the custom of the house, with 
the justice’s strong beer. These were all fallen together by 
the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. The 
justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his pres¬ 
ence soon put an end to the fray. On his return into the. 

9 129 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


parlour, he reported, that the occasion of the quarrel was no 
other than a dispute to whom, if Adams had been convicted, 
the greater share of the reward for apprehending him had 
belonged. All the company laughed at this, except Adams, 
who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, 
and said, he was concerned to see so litigious a temper in 
men. That he remembered a story something like it in one 
of the parishes where his cure lay:—“ There was,” continued 
he, “ a competition between three young fellows for the place 
of the clerk, which I disposed of, to the best of my abilities, ac¬ 
cording to merit; that is, I gave it to him who had the happiest 
knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established 
in his place than a contention began between the two dis¬ 
appointed candidates concerning their excellence; each con¬ 
tending on whom, had they two been the only competitors, 
my election would have fallen. This dispute frequently dis¬ 
turbed the congregation, and introduced a discord into the 
psalmody, till I was forced to silence them both. But alas! 
the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and, being no longer 
able to vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fighting. 
It produced many battles (for they were very near a match), 
and I believe would have ended fatally, had not the death 
of the clerk given me an opportunity to promote one of them 
to his place; which presently put an end to the dispute, and 
entirely reconciled the contending parties.” Adams then pro¬ 
ceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly 
of growing warm in disputes in which neither party is in¬ 
terested. He then applied himself vigorously to smoking; 
and a long silence ensued, which was at length broke by the 
justice, who began to sing forth his own praises, and to value 
himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the cause 
which had lately been before him. He was quickly interrupted 
by Mr Adams, between whom and his worship a dispute now 
arose, whether he ought not, in strictness of law, to have 
committed him, the said Adams; in which the latter main¬ 
tained he ought to have been committed, and the justice as 
vehemently held he ought not. This had most probably pro¬ 
duced a quarrel (for both were very violent and positive in 
their opinions), had not Fanny accidentally heard that a 
young fellow was going from the justice’s house to the very 

13° 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


inn where the stage-coach in which Joseph was put up. Upon 
this news, she immediately sent for the parson out of the 
parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though 
she would not own the reason, but pretended she could not 
bear to see the faces of those who had suspected her of such 
a crime), was as fully determined to go with her; he accord¬ 
ingly took leave of the justice and company: and so ended 
a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to 
set a magistrate and a divine together by the ears. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A VERY DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE, AS WELL TO THE PERSONS 
CONCERNED AS TO THE GOOD-NATURED READER. 

ADAMS, Fanny, and the guide, set out together about one 
il in the morning, the moon being then just risen. They 
had not gone above a mile before a most violent storm of 
rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or rather alehouse, 
where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a 
toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great con¬ 
tent, utterly forgetting everything that had happened. 

Fanny sat likewise down by the fire; but was much more 
impatient at the storm. She presently engaged the eyes of 
the host, his wife, the maid of the house, and the young fel¬ 
low who was their guide; they all conceived they had never 
seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, if thou 
art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next 
paragraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are 
obliged to set down, humbly hoping that we may escape the 
fate of Pygmalion; for if it should happen to us, or to thee, 
to be struck with this picture, we should be perhaps in as 
helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say to ourselves, 
quod petis est nusquam. Or, if the finest features in it should 

set Lady-’s image before our eyes, we should be still in 

as bad a situation, and might say to our desires, Coelum ipsum 
petimus stultitia. 

Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was 
I 3 I 




THE ADVENTURES OF 


tall and delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young 
women who seem rather intended to hang up in the hall of an 
anatomist than for any other purpose. On the contrary, she 
was so plump that she seemed bursting through her tight 
stays, especially in the part which confined her swelling 
breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to ex¬ 
tend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form 
of those limbs which she concealed; and though they were 
a little reddened by her labour, yet, if her sleeve slipped above 
her elbow, or her handkerchief discovered any part of her 
neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest Italian paint would 
be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chestnut brown, and 
nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had 
cut, and on Sundays used to curl down her neck, in the mod¬ 
ern fashion. Her forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, 
and rather full than otherwise. Her eyes black and sparkling; 
her nose just inclining to the Roman; her lips red and moist, 
and her under lip, according to the opinion of the ladies, too 
pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The 
small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so 
large, it might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her 
left cheek produced one so near a neighbour to it, that the 
former served only for a foil to the latter. Her complexion 
was fair, a little injured by the sun, but overspread with such 
a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged all their 
white for it: add to these a countenance in which, though 
she was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost in¬ 
credible ; and a sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either 
imitation or description. To conclude all, she had a natural 
gentility superior to the acquisition of art, and which sur¬ 
prized all who beheld her. 

This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, 
when her attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from 
an inner room, which sung the following song:— 

THE SONG. 

Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray 
Who is by thy beauties undone? 

To wash their remembrance away, 

To what distant Lethe must run? 


132 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


The wretch who is sentenced to die 
May escape, and leave justice behind; 
From his country perhaps he may fly, 
But O! can he fly from his mind? 


O rapture! unthought of before. 

To be thus of Chloe possess’d; 

Nor she, nor no tyrant’s hard power, 

Her image can tear from my breast. 

But felt not Narcissus more joy, 

With his eyes he beheld his loved charms? 
Yet what he beheld the fond boy 
More eagerly wish’d in his arms. 


How can it thy dear image be 
Which fills thus my bosom with woe? 
Can aught bear resemblance to thee 
Which grief and not joy can bestow? 
This counterfeit snatch from my heart, 
Ye pow’rs, tho’ with torment I rave, 
Tho’ mortal will prove the fell smart: 

I then shall find rest in my grave. 


Ah, see the dear nymph o’er the plain 
Come smiling and tripping along! 

A thousand Loves dance in her train, 

The Graces around her all throng. 

To meet her soft Zephyrus flies, 

And wafts all the sweets from the flowers, 
Ah, rogue! whilst he kisses her eyes, 

More sweets from her breath he devours. 


My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire: 

But her looks were so tender and kind, 
My hope almost reach’d my desire, 

And left lame despair far behind. 
Transported with madness, I flew, 

And eagerly seized on my bliss; 

Her bosom but half she withdrew, 

But half she refused my fond kiss. 


1 33 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


Advances like these made me bold; 

I whisper’d her,—love, we’re alone.— 

The rest let immortals unfold; 

No language can tell but their own. 

Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried, 

How long I thy cruelty bore! 

Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied, 

You ne’er was so pressing before. 

Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in 
yEschylus, without attending in the least to the voice, though 
one of the most melodious that ever was heard, when, cast¬ 
ing his eyes on Fanny, he cried out, “ Bless us, you look ex¬ 
tremely pale! ”•—“ Pale! Mr Adams/’ says she; “ O Jesus ! ” 
and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung 
his yEschylus into the fire, and fell a roaring to the people 
of the house for help. He soon summoned every one into 
the room, and the songster among the rest; but, O reader! 
when this nightingale, who was no other than Joseph An¬ 
drews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the situation we 
have described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his 
mind? If thou canst not, wave that meditation to behold 
his happiness, when, clasping her in his arms, he found life 
and blood returning into her cheeks; when he saw her open 
her beloved eyes, and heard her with the softest accent whis¬ 
per, “ Are you Joseph Andrews? ”—“ Art thou my Fanny? ” 
he answered eagerly; and, pulling her to his heart, he im¬ 
printed numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who 
were present. 

If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, 
they may take their eyes off from it, and survey parson Adams 
dancing about the room in a rapture of joy. Some philoso¬ 
phers may perhaps doubt whether he was not the happiest 
of the three; for the goodness of his heart enjoyed the bless¬ 
ings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two, 
together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions, 
as too deep for us, to those who are building some favourite 
hypothesis, which they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish 
to erect and support: for our part, we give it clearly on the 
side of Joseph, whose happiness was not only greater than 
the parson’s, but of longer duration; for as soon as the first 

i34 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


tumults of Adams’s rapture were over he cast his eyes towards 
the fire, where ^Eschylus lay expiring; and immediately res¬ 
cued the poor remains, to wit, the sheep-skin covering, of his 
dear friend, which was the work of his own hands, and had 
been his inseparable companion for upwards of thirty years. 

Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she 
began to restrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, re¬ 
flecting on what she had done and suffered in the presence 
of so many, she was immediately covered with confusion; 
and, pushing Joseph gently from her, she begged him to be 
quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer. 
Then, seeing Mrs Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to ad¬ 
vance to her; but that high woman would not return her 
curtsies; but, casting her eyes another way, immediately with¬ 
drew into another room, muttering, as she went, she wondered 
who the creature was. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A DISSERTATION CONCERNING HIGH PEOPLE AND LOW PEOPLE, 
WITH MRS SLIPSLOP’S DEPARTURE IN NO VERY GOOD TEMPER 
OF MIND, AND THE EVIL PLIGHT IN WHICH SHE LEFT ADAMS 
AND HIS COMPANY. 

I T will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers, that 
Mrs Slipslop, who had lived several years in the same 
house with Fanny, should, in a short separation, utterly for¬ 
get her. And indeed the truth is, that she remembered her 
very well. As we would not willingly, therefore, that any¬ 
thing should appear unnatural in this our history, we will 
endeavour to explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we 
doubt being able to satisfy the most curious reader that Mrs 
Slipslop did not in the least deviate from the common road 
in this behaviour; and, indeed, had she done otherwise, she 
must have descended below herself, and would have very 
justly been liable to censure. 

Be it known then, that the human species are divided into 
two sorts of people, to wit, high people and low people. As 

J 35 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


by high people I would not be understood to mean persons 
literally born higher in their dimensions than the rest of the 
species, nor metaphorically those of exalted characters or 
abilities; so by low people I cannot be construed to intend the 
reverse. High people signify no other than people of fashion, 
and low people those of no fashion. Now, this word fashion 
hath by long use lost its original meaning, from which at 
present it gives us a very different idea; for I am deceived 
if by persons of fashion we do not generally include a concep¬ 
tion of birth and accomplishments superior to the herd of 
mankind; whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally 
meant by a person of fashion than a person who drest him¬ 
self in the fashion of the times; and the word really and truly 
signifies no more at this day. Now, the world being thus 
divided into people of fashion and people of no fashion, a 
fierce contention arose between them; nor would those of one 
party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly to speak to those 
of the other, though they often held a very good correspon¬ 
dence in private. In this contention it is difficult to say which 
party succeeded: for, whilst the people of fashion seized sev¬ 
eral places to their own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, 
balls, &c., the people of no fashion, besides one royal place, 
called his Majesty’s Bear-garden, have been in constant pos¬ 
session of all hops, fairs, revels, &c. Two places have been 
agreed to be divided between them, namely, the church and 
the playhouse, where they segregate themselves from each 
other in a remarkable manner; for, as the people of fashion 
exalt themselves at church over the heads of the people of no 
fashion, so in the playhouse they abase themselves in the same 
degree under their feet. This distinction I have never met 
with any one able to account for: it is sufficient that, so far 
from looking on each other as brethren in the Christian lan¬ 
guage, they seem scarce to regard each other as of the same 
species. This, the terms “ strange persons, people one does 
not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes,” and many 
other appellations evidently demonstrate; which Mrs Slipslop, 
having often heard her mistress use, thought she had also a 
right to use in her turn; and perhaps she was not mistaken; for 
these two parties, especially those bordering nearly on each 
other, to wit, the lowest of the high, and the highest of the 

136 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


low, often change their parties according to place and time; 
for those who are people of fashion in one place are often 
people of no fashion in another. And with regard to time, 
it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture of dependence 
like a kind of ladder: as, for instance; early in the morning 
arises the postilion, or some other boy, which great families, 
no more than great ships, are without, and falls to brushing 
the clothes and cleaning the shoes of John the footman; 
who, being drest himself, applies his hands to the same la¬ 
bours for Mr Second-hand, the squire’s gentleman; the gen¬ 
tleman in the like manner, a little later in the day, attends 
the squire; the squire is no sooner equipped than he attends 
the levee of my lord; which is no sooner over than my lord 
himself is seen at the levee of the favourite, who, after the 
hour of homage is at an end, appears himself to pay homage 
to the levee of his sovereign. Nor is there, perhaps, in this 
whole ladder of dependence, any one step at a greater distance 
from the other than the first from the second; so that to a 
philosopher the question might only seem, whether you would 
choose to be a great man at six in the morning or at two in 
the afternoon. And yet there are scarce two of these who do 
not think the least familiarity with the persons below them a 
condescension, and, if they were to go one step farther, a 
degradation. 

And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this long digres¬ 
sion, which seemed to me necessary to vindicate the great char¬ 
acter of Mrs Slipslop from what low people, who have never 
seen high people, might think an absurdity; but we who 
know them must have daily found very high persons know us 
in one place and not in another, to-day and not to-morrow; 
all which it is difficult to account for otherwise than I have 
here endeavoured; and perhaps, if the gods, according to the 
opinion of some, made men only to laugh at them, there is no 
part of our behaviour which answers the end of our creation 
better than this. 

But to return to our history: Adams, who knew no more 
of this than the cat which sat on the table, imagining Mrs 
Slipslop’s memory had been much worse than it really was, 
followed her into the next room, crying out, “ Madam Slip¬ 
slop, here is one of your old acquaintance; do but see what 

i37 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


a fine woman she is grown since she left Lady Booby’s ser¬ 
vice.”—“ I think I reflect something of her,” answered she, 
with great dignity, “ but I can’t remember all the inferior 
servants in our family.” She then proceeded to satisfy 
Adams’s curiosity, by telling him, when she arrived at the 
inn, she found a chaise ready for her; that, her lady being 
expected very shortly in the country, she was obliged to 
make the utmost haste; and, in commensuration of Joseph’s 
lameness, she had taken him with her; and lastly, that the 
excessive virulence of the storm had driven them into the 
house where he found them. After which, she acquainted 
Adams with his having left his horse, and exprest some won¬ 
der at his having strayed so far out of his way, and at meet¬ 
ing him, as she said, in the company of that wench, who she 
feared was no better than she should be. 

The horse was no sooner put 1 to Adams’s head but he was 
immediately driven out by this reflection on the character of 
Fanny. He protested, he believed there was not a chaster 
damsel in the universe. “ I heartily wish, I heartily wish,” 
cried he (snapping his fingers), “that all her betters were as 
good.” He then proceeded to inform her of the accident of 
their meeting; but when he came to mention the circumstance 
of delivering her from the rape, she said, she thought him 
properer for the army than the clergy; that it did not become 
a clergyman to lay violent hands on any one; that he should 
have rather prayed that she might be strengthened. Adams 
said, he was very far from being ashamed of what he had 
done: she replied, want of shame was not the currycuristic of 
a clergyman. This dialogue might have probably grown 
warmer, had not Joseph opportunely entered the room, to ask 
leave of Madam .Slipslop to introduce Fanny; but she positively 
refused to admit any such trollops, and told him, she would 
have been burnt before she would have suffered him to get 
into a chaise with her, if she had once repected him of having 
his sluts waylaid on the road for him; adding, that Mr Adams 
acted a very pretty part, and she did not doubt but to see him 
a bishop. He made the best bow he could, and cried out, “ I 
thank you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, which 
I shall take all honest means to deserve.”—“ Very honest 
means,” returned she with a sneer, “ to bring good people to- 

J 3 8 


Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him Xivect 

scourging f< r his ~~ 










B _ J|JV' 

<v 

f' : v*< Sge 


J x v4t»;i 

f jjjjL, 

J§,» * ow y .It i, • 

,v| 


b#3sF3te«gr *< sj 

BSgj^B S’ 

■f 

- - V 



j ‘ > a-w' fvv; St* 


*3§A - 


V (Kis. < * fc :?*&]&• \ 

!c£'Si> , V «c t JOr'A " 





fc. t 

^ 4T *i8fcSF*. 2> # 


'~ ^^Xl, «bl' m 

ll^li 

r" "•" >v 

tk/rV ; Af**y^> •^SPcffBy^EffjS?ppS^ ’ » 


mm 



















































































\ 










JOSEPH ANDREWS 

gether.” At these words Adams took two or three strides 
across the room, when the coachman came to inform Mrs 
Slipslop that the storm was over, and the moon shone very 
bright. She then sent for Joseph, who was sitting without 
with his Fanny, and would have had him gone with her; 
but he peremptorily refused to leave Fanny behind, which 
threw the good woman into a violent rage. She said she 
would inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and 
did not doubt but she would rid the parish of all such people; 
and concluded a long speech, full of bitterness and very hard 
words, and with some reflections on the clergy not decent to 
repeat; at last, finding Joseph unmovable, she flung herself 
into the chaise, casting a look at Fanny as she went, not un¬ 
like that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play. To say 
the truth, she was most disagreeably disappointed by the pres¬ 
ence of Fanny: she had, from her first seeing Joseph at the 
inn, conceived hopes of something which might have been 
accomplished at an alehouse as well as a palace. Indeed, it 
is probable Mr Adams had rescued more than Fanny from the 
danger of a rape that evening. 

When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slipslop, 
Adams, Joseph, and Fanny assembled over the fire, where 
they had a great deal of innocent chat, pretty enough; but, 
as possibly it would not be very entertaining to the reader, 
we shall hasten to the morning; only observing that none of 
them went to bed that night. Adams, when he had smoked 
three pipes, took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left 
the lovers, whose eyes were too well employed to permit any 
desire of shutting them, to enjoy by themselves, during some 
hours, an happiness of which none of my readers who have 
never been in love are capable of the least conception, though 
we had as many tongues as Homer desired, to describe it with, 
and which all true lovers will represent to their own minds 
without the least assistance from us. 

Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a thousand 
entreaties, at last gave up her whole soul to Joseph; and, 
almost fainting in his arms, with a sigh infinitely softer and 
sweeter too than any Arabian breeze, she whispered to his 
lips, which were then close to hers, “ O Joseph, you have won 
me; I will be yours for ever.” Joseph, having thanked her 

i39 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


on his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness which she 
now almost returned, leapt up in a rapture, and awakened 
the parson, earnestly begging him that he would that instant 
join their hands together. Adams rebuked him for his re¬ 
quest, and told him he would by no means consent to any¬ 
thing contrary to the forms of the church; that he had no 
licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one: that 
the church had prescribed a form,—namely, the publication 
of banns,—with which all good Christians ought to comply, 
and to the omission of which he attributed the many miseries 
which befel great folks in marriage; concluding, “ As many 
as are joined together otherwise than God’s word doth allow, 
are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony 
lawful.” Fanny agreed with the parson, saying to Joseph, 
with a blush, she assured him she would not consent to any 
such thing, and that she wondered at his offering it. In 
which resolution she was comforted and commended by 
Adams; and Joseph was obliged to wait patiently till after the 
third publication of the banns, which however he obtained 
the consent of Fanny, in the presence of Adams, to put in at 
their arrival. 

The sun had now been risen some hours, when Joseph, 
finding his leg surprizingly recovered, proposed to walk for¬ 
wards ; but when they were all ready to set out, an accident 
a little retarded them. This was no other than the reckoning, 
which amounted to seven shillings; no great sum if we con¬ 
sider the immense quantity of ale which Mr Adams poured in. 
Indeed, they had no objection to the reasonableness of the 
bill, but many to the probability of paying it; for the fellow 
who had taken poor Fanny’s purse had unluckily forgot to 
return it. So that the account stood thus: 


£. s. d. 

Mr Adams and company, Dr.070 


In Mr Adams’s pocket.00 654 

In Mr Joseph’s .000 

In Mrs Fanny’s. ’.....000 


Balance ....06 5^ 
140 








JOSEPH ANDREWS 


They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each other, 
when Adams whipt out on his toes, and asked the hostess, if 
there was no clergyman in that parish ? She answered, there 
was. “ Is he wealthy ?'” replied he; to which she likewise 
answered in the affirmative. Adams then snapping his fingers 
returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out, “ Heureka, 
Heureka; ” which not being understood, he told them in plain 
English, they need give themselves no trouble, for he had 
a brother in the parish who would defray the reckoning, and 
that he would just step to his house and fetch the money, and 
return to them instantly. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN PARSON ADAMS AND PARSON 
TRULLIBER. 

P ARSON ADAMS came to the house of Parson Trul- 
liber, whom he found stript into his waistcoat, with an 
apron on, and a pail in his hand, just come from serving his 
hogs; for Mr Trulliber was a parson on Sundays, but all the 
other six might more properly be called a farmer. He occu¬ 
pied a small piece of land of his own, besides which he rented 
a considerable deal more. His wife milked his cows, managed 
his dairy, and followed the markets with butter and eggs. 
The hogs fell chiefly to his care, which he carefully waited on 
at home, and attended to fairs; on which occasion he was 
liable to many jokes, his own size being, with much ale, ren¬ 
dered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. He was 
indeed one of the largest men you should see, and could have 
acted the part of Sir John Falstaff without stuffing. Add 
to this that the rotundity of his belly was considerably in¬ 
creased by the shortness of his stature, his shadow ascending 
very near as far in height, when he lay on his back, as when 
he stood on his legs. His voice was loud and hoarse, and his 
his accent extremely broad. To complete the whole, he had 
a stateliness in his gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a 
goose, only he stalked slower. 

Mr Trulliber, being informed that somebody wanted to 

141 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


speak with him, immediately slipt off his apron and clothed 
himself in an old night-gown, being the dress in which he 
always saw his company at home. His wife, who informed 
him of Mr Adams’s arrival, had made a small mistake; for 
she had told her husband, she believed there was a man come 
for some of his hogs. This supposition made Mr Trulliber 
hasten with the utmost expedition to attend his guest. He no 
sooner saw Adams than, not in the least doubting the cause 
of his errand to be what his wife had imagined, he told him, 
he was come in very good time; that he expected a dealer 
that very afternoon; and added, they were all pure and fat, 
and upwards of twenty score a-piece. Adams answered, he 
believed he did not know him. “ Yes, yes,” cried Trulliber, 
“ I have seen you often at fair; why we have dealt before now, 
mun, I warrant you. Yes, yes,” cries he, “ I remember thy 
face very well, but won’t mention a word more till you have 
seen them, though I have never sold thee a flitch of such bacon 
as is now in the stye.” Upon which he laid violent hands on 
Adams, and dragged him into the hog-stye, which was indeed 
but two steps from his parlour-window. They were no sooner 
arrived there than he cried out, “ Do but handle them; step in, 
friend; art welcome to handle them, whether dost buy or no.” 
At which words, opening the gate, he pushed Adams into the 
pig-stye, insisting on it that he should handle them before 
he would talk one word with him. 

Adams, whose natural complacence was beyond any artifi¬ 
cial, was obliged to comply before he was suffered to explain 
himself; and, laying hold on one of their tails, the unruly 
beast gave such a sudden spring, that he threw poor Adams 
all along in the mire. Trulliber, instead of assisting him to 
get up, burst into a laughter, and, entering the stye, said to 
Adams with some contempt, “ Why, dost not know how to 
handle a hog ? ” and was going to lay hold of one himself, 
but Adams, who thought he had carried his complacence far 
enough, was no sooner on his legs than he escaped out of the 
reach of the animals, and cried out, “ Nil habeo curh porris: 
I am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs.” Trul¬ 
liber answered, he was sorry for the mistake, but that he 
must blame his wife, adding, she was a fool, and always 
committed blunders. He then desired him to walk in and 


142 


JOSEPH ^ANDREWS 

clean himself, that he would only fasten up the stye ana 
follow him. Adams desired leave to dry his great-coat, wig, 
and hat by the fire, which Trulliber granted. Mrs Trulliber 
would have brought him a basin of water to wash his face, 
but her husband bid her be quiet like a fool as she was, or 
she would commit more blunders, and then directed Adams 
to the pump. While Adams was thus employed, Trulliber, 
conceiving no great respect for the appearance of his guest, 
fastened the parlour door, and now conducted him into the 
kitchen, telling him he believed a cup of drink would do him 
no harm, and whispered his wife to draw a little of the worst 
ale. After a short silence Adams said, “ I fancy, sir, you 
already perceive me to be a clergyman.”—“Aye, aye,” cries 
Trulliber, grinning, “I perceive you have some cassock; I 
will not venture to caale it a whole one.” Adams answered, 
it was indeed none of the best, but he had the misfortune 
to tear it about ten years ago in passing over a stile. Mrs 
Trulliber, returning with the drink, told her husband she 
fancied the gentleman was a traveller, and that he would be 
glad to eat a bit. Trulliber bid her hold her impertinent 
tongue, and asked her if parsons used to travel without 
horses? adding, he supposed the gentleman had none by his 
his having no boots on. “ Yes, sir, yes,” says Adams; “ I 
have a horse, but I have left him behind me.”—“ I am glad 
to hear you have one,” says Trulliber; “for I assure you I 
don’t love to see clergymen on foot; it is not seemly nor 
suiting the dignity of the cloth.” Here Trulliber made a 
long oration on the dignity of the cloth (or rather gown) 
not much worth relating, till his wife had spread the table 
and set a mess of porridge on it for his breakfast. He then 
said to Adams, “ I don’t know, friend, how you came to caale 
on me; however, as you are here, if you think proper to eat 
a morsel, you may.” Adams accepted the invitation, and the 
two parsons sat down together; Mrs Trulliber waiting be¬ 
hind her husband’s chair, as was, it seems, her custom. Trul¬ 
liber ate heartily, but scarce put anything in his mouth with¬ 
out finding fault with his wife’s cookery. All which the poor 
woman bore patiently. Indeed, she was so absolute an ad¬ 
mirer of her husband’s greatness and importance, of which 
she had frequent hints from his own mouth, that she almost 

i43 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


carried her adoration to an opinion of his infallibility. To 
say the truth, the parson had exercised her more ways than 
one; and the pious woman had been so well edified by her hus¬ 
band’s sermons, that she had resolved to receive the bad things 
of this world together with the good. She had indeed been 
at first a little contentious; but he had long since got the 
better; partly by her love for this, partly by her fear of that; 
partly by her religion, partly by the respect he paid himself, 
and partly by that which he received from the parish. She 
had, in short, absolutely submitted, and now worshipped her 
husband, as Sarah did Abraham, calling him (not lord, but) 
master. Whilst they were at table her husband gave her a 
fresh example of his greatness; for, as she had just delivered 
a cup of ale to Adams, he snatched it out of his hand, and, 
crying out, “ I caal’d vurst,” swallowed down the ale. Adams 
denied it; it was referred to the wife, who, though her 
conscience was on the side of Adams, durst not give it against 
her husband; upon which he said, “ No, sir, no; I should not 
have been so rude to have taken it from you if you had caal’d 
vurst, but I’d have you know I’m a better man than to suffer 
the best he in the kingdom to drink before me in my own 
house when I caale vurst.” 

As soon as their breakfast was ended, Adams began in 
the following manner: “ I think, sir, it is high time to inform 
you of the business of my embassy. I am a traveller and 
am passing this way in company with two young people, a 
lad and a damsel, my parishioners, towards my own cure; 
we stopt at a house of hospitality in the parish, where they 
directed me to you as having the cure.”—“ Though I am but 
a curate,” says Trulliber, “ I believe I am as warm as the 
vicar himself, or perhaps the rector of the next parish too; 
I believe I could buy them both.”—“ Sir,” cries Adams, “ I 
rejoice thereat. Now, sir, my business is, that we are by 
various accidents stript of our money, and are not able to 
pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. I therefore request 
you to assist me with the loan of those seven shillings, and 
also seven shillings more, which, peradventure, I shall return 
to you; but if not, I am convinced you will joyfully embrace 
such an opportunity of laying up a treasure in a better place 
than any this world affords.” 


144 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 




Suppose a stranger, who entered the chambers of a lawyer, 
being imagined a client, when the lawyer was preparing his 
palm for the fee, should pull out a writ against him. Sup¬ 
pose an apothecary, at the door of a chariot containing some 
great doctor of eminent skill, should, instead of directions to 
a patient, present him with a potion for himself. Suppose 
a minister should, instead of a good round sum, treat my 
lord-, or sir-, or esq.-with a good broom¬ 

stick. Suppose a civil companion, or a led captain, should, 
instead of virtue, and honour, and beauty, and parts, and 
admiration, thunder vice, and infamy, and ugliness, and folly, 
and contempt, in his patron’s ears. Suppose, when a trades¬ 
man first carries in his bill, the man of fashion should pay 
it; or suppose, if he did so, the tradesman should abate what 
he had overcharged, on the supposition of waiting. In short, 
—suppose what you will, you never can nor will suppose any¬ 
thing equal to the astonishment which seized on Trulliber, 
as soon as Adams had ended his speech. A while he rolled 
his eyes in silence; sometimes surveying Adams, then his 
wife; then casting them on the ground, then lifting them 
up to heaven. At last he burst forth in the following accents: 
“ Sir, I believe I know where to lay up my little treasure as 
well as another. I thank G—, if I am not so w^arm as some, 
I am content; that is a blessing greater than riches; and he 
to whom that is given need ask no more. To be content 
with a little is greater than to possess the world; which a 
man may possess without being so. Lay up my treasure! 
what matters where a man’s treasure is whose heart is in the 
Scriptures? there is the treasure of a Christian.” At these 
words the water ran from Adams’s eyes; and, catching Trul¬ 
liber by the hand in a rapture, “ Brother,” says he, “ heavens 
bless the accident by which I came to see you! I would have 
walked many a mile to have communed with you; and, be¬ 
lieve me, I will shortly pay you a second visit; but my friends, 
I fancy, by this time, wonder at my stay; so let me have the 
money immediately.” Trulliber then put on a stern look, 
and cried out, “ Thou dost not intend to rob me ? ” At which 
the wife, bursting into tears, fell on her knees and roared 
out, “O dear sir! for Heaven’s sake don’t rob my master: 
we are but poor people.” “ Get up, for a fool as thou art, 
10 i45 





THE ADVENTURES OF 



and go about thy business/’ said Trulliber: “dost think the 
man will venture his life? he is a beggar, and no robber.” 
“ Very true, indeed,” answered Adams. “ I wish, with all my 
heart, the tithing-man was here,” cries Trulliber: “I would 
have thee punished as a vagabond for thy impudence. Four¬ 
teen shillings indeed! I won’t give thee a farthing. I be¬ 
lieve thou art no more a clergyman than the woman there ” 
(pointing to his wife) ; “ but if thou art, dost deserve to have 
thy gown stript over thy shoulders for running about the 
country in such a manner.” “ I forgive your suspicions,” says 
Adams ; “ but suppose I am not a clergyman, I am nevertheless 
thy brother; and thou, as a Christian, much more as a clergy¬ 
man, art obliged to relieve my distress.” “ Dost preach to 
me?” replied Trulliber: “dost pretend to instruct me in my 
duty?” “Hacks, a good story,” cries Mrs Trulliber, “to 
preach to my master.” “ Silence, woman,” cries Trulliber. 
“ I would have thee know, friend ” (addressing himself to 
Adams), “I shall not learn my duty from such as thee. I 
know what charity is, better than to give to vagabonds.” 
“ Besides, if we were inclined, the poor’s rate obliges us to 
give so much charity,” cries the wife. “ Pugh! thou art a 
fool. Poor’s reate! Hold thy nonsense,” answered Trulli¬ 
ber ; and then, turning to Adams, he told him, “ he would 
give him nothing.” “ I am sorry,” answered Adams, “ that 
you do know what charity is, since you practise it no 
better: I must tell you, if you trust to your knowledge for 
your justification, you will find yourself deceived, though 
you should add faith to it, without good works.” “ Fellow,” 
cries Trulliber, “dost thou speak against faith in my house? 
Get out of my doors: I will no longer remain under the 
same roof with a wretch who speaks wantonly of faith and 
the Scriptures.” “ Name not the Scriptures,” says Adams. 
“ How! not name the Scriptures! Do you disbelieve the 
Scriptures?” cries Trulliber. “No; but you do,” answered 
Adams, “ if I may reason from your practice! for their com¬ 
mands are so explicit, and their rewards and punishments so 
immense, that it is impossible a man should steadfastly 
believe without obeying. Now, there is no command more 
express, no duty more frequently enjoined, than charity! 
Whoever, therefore, is void of charity, I make no scruple of 

146 




JOSEPH ANDREWS 


pronouncing that he is no Christian.” “ I would not advise 
thee,” says Trulliber, “ to say that I am no Christian: I won’t 
take it of you; for I believe I am as good a man as thyself ” 
(and indeed, though he was now rather too corpulent for 
athletic exercises, he had, in his youth, been one of the best 
boxers and cudgel-players in the county). His wife, seeing 
him clench his fist, interposed, and begged him not to fight, 
but show himself a true Christian, and take the law of him. 
As nothing could provoke Adams to strike, but an absolute 
assault on himself or his friend, he smiled at the angry look 
and gestures of Trulliber; and, telling him he was sorry to 
see such men in orders, departed without further ceremony. 


CHAPTER XV. 


AN ADVENTURE THE CONSEQUENCE OF A NEW INSTANCE 
WHICH PARSON ADAMS GAVE OF HIS FORGETFULNESS. 

W HEN he came back to the inn he found Joseph and 
Fanny sitting together. They were so far from think¬ 
ing his absence long, as he had feared they would, that they 
never once missed or thought of him. Indeed, I have been 
often assured by both, that they spent these hours in a most 
delightful conversation; but, as I never could prevail on 
either to relate it, so I cannot communicate it to the reader. 

Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success of his 
enterprize. They were all greatly confounded, none being 
able to propose any method of departing, till Joseph at last 
advised calling in the hostess, and desiring her to trust them; 
which Fanny said she despaired of her doing, as she was one 
of the sourest-faced women she had ever beheld. 

But she was agreeably disappointed; for the hostess was 
no sooner asked the question than she readily agreed; and, 
with a curtsy and smile, wished them a good journey. How¬ 
ever, lest Fanny’s skill in physiognomy should be called in 
question, we will venture to assign one reason which might 
probably incline her to this confidence and good-humour. 
IVVhen Adams said he was going to visit his brother, he had 


H7 




THE ADVENTURES OF 


unwittingly imposed on Joseph and Fanny, who both believed 
he had meant his natural brother, and not his brother in 
divinity, and had so informed the hostess, on her inquiry 
after him. Now Mr Trulliber had, by his professions of piety, 
by his gravity, austerity, reserve, and the opinion of his great 
wealth, so great an authority in his parish, that they all lived 
in the utmost fear and apprehension of him. It was there¬ 
fore no wonder that the hostess, who knew it was in his 
option whether she should ever sell another mug of drink, 
did not dare to affront his supposed brother by denying him 
credit. 

They were now just on their departure when Adams recol¬ 
lected he had left his great-coat and hat at Mr Trulliber’s. 
As he was not desirous of renewing his visit, the hostess her¬ 
self, having no servant at home, offered to fetch them. 

This was an unfortunate expedient; for the hostess was 
soon undeceived in the opinion she had entertained of Adams, 
whom Trulliber abused in the grossest terms, especially when 
he heard he had had the assurance to pretend to be his near 
relation. 

At her return, therefore, she entirely changed her note. 
She said, folks might be ashamed of travelling about, and 
pretending to be what they were not. That taxes were high, 
and for her part she was obliged to pay for what she had; 
she could not therefore possibly, nor would she, trust any¬ 
body ; no, not her own father. That money was never scarcer, 
and she wanted to make up a sum. That she expected there¬ 
fore, they should pay their reckoning before they left the 
house. 

Adams was now greatly perplexed; but, as he knew that 
he could easily have borrowed such a sum in his own parish, 
and as he knew he would have lent it himself to any mortal 
in distress, so he took fresh courage, and sallied out all round 
the parish, but to no purpose; he returned as pennyless as 
he went, groaning and lamenting that it was possible, in a 
country professing Christianity, for a wretch to starve in the 
midst of his fellow-creatures who abounded. 

Whilst he was gone, the hostess, who stayed as a sort of 
guard with Joseph and Fanny, entertained them with the 
goodness of parson Trulliber. And, indeed, he had not only 

148 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


a very good character as to other qualities in the neighbour¬ 
hood, but was reputed a man of great charity; for, though he 
never gave a farthing, he had always that word in his mouth. 

Adams was no sooner returned the second time than the 
storm grew exceedingly high, the hostess declaring, among 
other things, that, if they offered to stir without paying her, 
she would soon overtake them with a warrant. 

Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else, hath said, that when 
the most exquisite cunning fails, chance often hits the mark, 
and that by means the least expected. Virgil expresses this 
very boldly:— 

Turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo 
Auderet, volvenda dies, en! attulit ultro. 

I would quote more great men if I could; but my memory 
not permitting me, I will proceed to exemplify these observa¬ 
tions by the following instance :— 

_ There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough to 
contrive it) to be at that time in the alehouse a fellow who 
had been formerly a drummer in an Irish regiment, and now 
travelled the country as a pedlar. This man, having atten¬ 
tively listened to the discourse of the hostess, at last took 
Adams aside, and asked him what the sum was for which 
they were detained. As soon as he was informed, he sighed, 
and said, he was sorry it was so much; for that he had no 
more than six shillings and sixpence in his pocket, which he 
would lend them with all his heart. Adams gave a caper, 
and cried out, it would do; for that he had sixpence himself. 
And thus these poor people, who could not engage the com¬ 
passion of riches and piety, were at length delivered out of 
their distress by the charity of a poor pedlar. 

I shall refer it to my reader to make what observations he 
pleases on this incident: it is sufficient for me to inform him 
that, after Adams and his companions had returned him a 
thousand thanks, and told him where he might call to be re¬ 
paid, they all sallied out of the house without any compli¬ 
ments from their hostess, or indeed without paying her any; 
Adams declaring he would take particular care never to call 
there again; and she on her side assuring them she wanted no 
such guests. 


49 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A VERY CURIOUS ADVENTURE, IN WHICH MR ADAMS GAVE A 
MUCH GREATER INSTANCE OF THE HONEST SIMPLICITY OF 
HIS HEART THAN OF HIS EXPERIENCE IN THE WAYS OF 
THIS WORLD. 

O JJR travellers had walked about two miles from that inn, 
which they had more reason to have mistaken for a cas¬ 
tle than Don Quixote ever had any of those in which he so¬ 
journed, seeing they had met with such difficulty in escaping 
out of its walls, when they came to a parish, and beheld a 
sign of invitation hanging out. A gentleman sat smoking 
a pipe at the door, of whom Adams enquired the road, and 
received so courteous and obliging an answer, accompanied 
with so smiling a countenance, that the good parson, whose 
heart was naturally disposed to love and affection, began to 
ask several other questions; particularly the name of the 
parish, and who was the owner of a large house whose front 
they then had in prospect. The gentleman answered as 
obligingly as before; and as to the house, acquainted him it 
was his own. He then proceeded in the following manner: 
“ Sir, I presume by your habit you are a clergyman; and as 
you are travelling on foot I suppose a glass of good beer will 
not be disagreeable to you; and I can recommend my land¬ 
lord’s within, as some of the best in all this country. What 
say you, will you halt a little and let us take a pipe together ? 
there is no better tobacco in the kingdom.” This proposal 
was not displeasing to Adams, who had allayed his thirst 
that day with no better liquor than what Mrs. Trulliber’s 
cellar had produced; and which was indeed little superior, 
either in richness or flavour, to that which distilled from 
those grains her generous husband bestowed on his hogs. 
Having therefore abundantly thanked the gentleman for his 
kind invitation, and bid Joseph and Fanny follow him, he 
entered the alehouse, where a large loaf and cheese and a 
pitcher of beer, which truly answered the character given of 
it, being set before them, the three travellers fell to eating, 

*5° 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


with appetites infinitely more voracious than are to be found 
at the most exquisite eating-houses in the parish of St 
James’s. 

The gentleman expressed great delight in the hearty and 
cheerful behaviour of Adams; and particularly in the fa¬ 
miliarity with which he conversed with Joseph and Fanny, 
whom he often called his children; a term he explained to 
mean no more than his parishioners; saying, he looked on 
all those whom God had intrusted to his cure to stand to 
him in that relation. The gentleman, shaking him by the 
hand, highly applauded those sentiments. “ They are, in¬ 
deed,” says he, “ the true principles of a Christian divine; 
and I heartily wish they were universal; but, on the con¬ 
trary, I am sorry to say the parson of our parish, instead of 
esteeming his poor parishioners as a part of his family, seems 
rather to consider them as not of the same species with him¬ 
self. He seldom speaks to any, unless some few of the rich¬ 
est of us; nay, indeed, he will not move his hat to the others. 
I often laugh when I behold him on Sundays strutting along 
the church-yard like a turkey-cock through rows of his pa¬ 
rishioners, who bow to him with as much submission, and are 
as unregarded, as a set of servile courtiers by the proudest 
prince in Christendom. But if such temporal pride is ridicu¬ 
lous, surely the spiritual is odious and detestable; if such a 
puffed-up empty human bladder, strutting in princely robes, 
just moves one’s derision, surely in the habit of a priest it 
must raise our scorn.” 

“ Doubtless,” answered Adams, “ your opinion is right ; 
but I hope such examples are rare. The clergy whom I have 
the honour to know maintain a different behaviour; and you 
will allow me, sir, that the readiness which too many of the 
laity show to contemn the order may be one reason of their 
avoiding too much humility.” “ Very true, indeed,” says the 
gentleman; “ I find, sir, you are a man of excellent sense, 
and am happy in this opportunity of knowing you; perhaps 
our accidental meeting may not be disadvantageous to you 
neither. At present I shall only say to you that the incum¬ 
bent of this living is old and infirm, and that it is in my gift. 
Doctor, give me your hand; and assure yourself of it at his 

I 5 I 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


decease.” Adams told him he was never more confounded in 
his life than at his utter incapacity to make any return to such 
noble and unmerited generosity. “ A mere trifle, sir,” cries 
the gentleman, “ scarce worth your acceptance; a little more 
than three hundred a-year. I wish it was double the value 
for your sake.” Adams bowed, and cried from the emotions 
of his gratitude; when the other asked him, if he was married, 
or had any children, besides those in the spiritual sense he had 
mentioned. “ Sir,” replied the parson, “ I have a wife and 
six at your service.” “ That is unlucky,” says the gentleman; 
“ for I would otherwise have taken you into my own house 
as my chaplain; however, I have another in the parish (for 
the parsonage-house is not good enough), which I will fur¬ 
nish for you. Pray, does your wife understand a dairy ? ” 
“ I can’t profess she does,” says Adams. “ I am sorry for it,” 
quoth the gentleman; “ I would have given you half-a-dozen 
cows, and very good grounds to have maintained them.” 
“ Sir,” said Adams, in an ecstasy, “ you are too liberal; in¬ 
deed you are.” “ Not at all,” cries the gentleman: “ I esteem 
riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good; and 
I never saw one whom I had a greater inclination to serve.” 
At which words he shook him heartily by the hand, and told 
him he had sufficient room in his house to entertain him and 
his friends. Adams begged he might give him no such 
trouble; that they could be very well accommodated in the 
house where they were; forgetting they had not a sixpenny 
piece among them. The gentleman would not be denied; and, 
informing himself how far they were travelling, he said it 
was too long a journey to take on foot, and begged that they 
would favour him by suffering him to lend them a servant 
and horses; adding, withal, that, if they would do him the 
pleasure of their company only two days, he would furnish 
them with his coach and six. Adams, turning to Joseph, 
said, “ How lucky is this gentleman’s goodness to you, who I 
am afraid would be scarce able to hold out on your lame leg! ” 
and then, addressing the person who made him these liberal 
promises, after much bowing, he cried out, “ Blessed be the 
hour which first introduced me to a man of your charity! you 
are indeed a Christian of the true primitive kind, and an hon- 

*5 2 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


our to the country wherein you live. I would willingly have 
taken a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to have beheld you; for 
the advantages which we draw from your goodness give me 
little pleasure, in comparison of what I enjoy for your own 
sake when I consider the treasures you are by these means 
laying up for yourself in a country that passeth not away. 
We will therefore, most generous sir, accept your goodness, 
as well the entertainment you have so kindly offered us at 
your house this evening, as the accommodation of your horses 
to-morrow morning.” He then began to search for his hat, 
as did Joseph for his; and both they and Fanny were in order 
of departure, when the gentleman, stopping short, and seem¬ 
ing to meditate by himself for the space of about a minute, 
exclaimed thus: “ Sure never any thing was so unlucky; I 
had forgot that my housekeeper was gone abroad, and hath 
locked up all my rooms; indeed, I would break them open for 
you, but shall not be able to furnish you with a bed; for she 
has likewise put away all my linen. I am glad it entered into 
my head before I had given you the trouble of walking there; 
besides, I believe you will find better accommodations here 
than you expected.—Landlord, you can provide good beds 
for these people, can’t you?” “ Yes, and please your wor¬ 
ship,” cries the host, “ and such as no lord or justice of the 
peace in the kingdom need be ashamed to lie in.” “ I am 
heartily sorry,” sSys the gentleman, “ for this disappoint¬ 
ment. I am resojved I will never suffer her to carry away the 
keys again.” “ Pray, sir, let it not make you uneasy,” cries 
Adams; “ we shall do very well here; and the loan of your 
horses is a favour we shall be incapable of making any re¬ 
turn to.” “ Aye! ” said the squire, “ the horses shall attend 
you here at what hour in the morning you please; ” and now, 
after many civilities too tedious to enumerate, many squeezes 
by the hand, with most affectionate looks and smiles at each 
other, and after appointing the horses at seven the next morir- 
ing, the gentleman took his leave of them, and departed to his 
own house. Adams and his companions returned to the table, 
where the parson smoked another pipe, and then they all re¬ 
tired to rest. 

Mr Adams rose very early, and called Joseph out of his 

r 53 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


bed, between whom a very fierce dispute ensued, whether 
Fanny should ride behind Joseph, or behind the gentleman’s 
servant; Joseph insisting on it that he was perfectly recov¬ 
ered, and was as capable of taking care of Fanny as any other 
person could be. But Adams would not agree to it, and de¬ 
clared he would not trust her behind him; for that he was 
weaker than he imagined himself to be. 

This dispute continued a long time, and had begun to be 
very hot, when a servant arrived from their good friend, to 
acquaint them that he was unfortunately prevented from lend¬ 
ing them any horses; for that his groom had, unknown to 
him, put his whole stable under a course of physic. 

This advice presently struck the two disputants dumb: 
Adams cried out, “ Was ever anything so unlucky as this 
poor gentleman? I protest I am more sorry on his account 
than my own. -You see, Joseph, how this good-natured man is 
treated by his servants; one locks up his linen, another 
physics his horses, and I suppose, by his being at this house 
last night, the butler had locked up his cellar. Bless us! how 
good-nature is used in this world! I protest I am more con¬ 
cerned on his account than my own.” “ So am not I,” cries 
Joseph; “ not that I am much troubled about walking on 
foot: all my concern is, how we shall get out of the house, 
unless God sends another pedlar to redeem us. But certainly 
this gentleman has such an affection for you, that he would 
lend you a larger sum than we owe here, which is not above 
four or five shillings.” “ Very true, child,” answered Adams; 
“ I will write a letter to him, and will even venture to solicit 
him for three half-crowns; there will be no harm in having 
two or three shillings in our pockets; as we have full forty 
miles to travel, we may possibly have occasion for them.” 

Fanny being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, and left 
Adams to write his letter, which having finished, he de¬ 
spatched a boy with it to the gentleman, and then seated him¬ 
self by the door, lighted his pipe, and betook himself to medi¬ 
tation. 

The boy staying longer than seemed to . be necessary, Jo¬ 
seph, who with Fanny was now returned to the parson, ex¬ 
pressed some apprehensions that the gentleman’s steward had 

*54 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


locked up his purse too. To which Adams answered, it 
might very possibly be, and he should wonder at no liberties 
which the devil might put into the head of a wicked servant 
to take with so worthy a master; but added, that, as the sum 
was so small, so noble a gentleman would be easily able to 
procure it in the parish, though he had it not in his own 
pocket. “ Indeed,” says he, “ if it was four or five guineas, 
or any such large quantity of money, it might be a different 
matter.” 

They were now sat down to breakfast over some toast and 
ale, when the boy returned and informed them that the gen¬ 
tleman was not at home. “Very well! ” cries Adams; “but 
why, child, did you not stay till his return ? Go back again, 
my good boy, and wait for his coming home; he cannot be 
gone far, as his horses are all sick; and besides, he had no 
intention to go abroad, for he invited us to spend this day 
and to-morrow at his house. Therefore go back, child, and 
tarry till his return home.” The messenger departed, and 
was back again with great expedition, bringing an account 
that the gentleman was gone a long journey, and would not 
be at home again this month. At these words Adams seemed 
greatly confounded, saying, “ This must be a sudden accident, 
as the sickness or death of a relation or some such unforeseen 
misfortune; ” and then, turning to Joseph, cried, “ I wish you 
had reminded me to have borrowed this money last night.” 
Joseph, smiling, answered, he was very much deceived if the 
gentleman would not have found some excuse to avoid lend¬ 
ing it.—“ I own,” says he, “ I was never much pleased with 
his professing so much kindness for you at first sight; for I 
have heard the gentlemen of our cloth in London tell many 
such stories of their masters. But when the boy brought the 
message back of his not being at home, I presently knew 
what would follow; for, whenever a man of fashion doth not 
care to fulfil his promises, the custom is to order his servants 
that he will never be at home to the person so promised. In 
London they call it denying him. I have myself denied Sir 
Thomas Booby above a hundred times, and when the man 
hath danced attendance for about a month, or sometimes 
longer, he is acquainted in the end that the gentleman is gone 

i55 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


out of town and could do nothing in the business.”—“ Good 
Lord! ” says Adams, “ what wickedness is there in the Chris¬ 
tian world! I profess almost equal to what I have read of the 
heathens. But surely, Joseph, your suspicions of this gentle¬ 
man must be unjust, for what a silly fellow must he be who 
would do the devil's work for nothing! and canst thou tell 
me any interest he could possibly propose to himself by de¬ 
ceiving us in his professions ? ”—“ It is not for me,” answered 
Joseph, “ to give reasons for what men do to a gentleman of 
your learning.”—“You say right,” quoth Adams; “know¬ 
ledge of men is only to be learnt from books; Plato and 
Seneca for that; and those are authors, I am afraid, child, 
you never read.”—“ Not I, sir, truly,” answered Joseph; “ all 
I know is, it is a maxim among the gentlemen of our cloth, 
that those masters who promise the most perform the least; 
and I have often heard them say they have found the largest 
vails in those families where they were not promised any. 
But, sir, instead of considering any farther these matters, it 
would be our wisest way to contrive some method of getting 
out of this house; for the generous gentleman, instead of 
doing us any service, hath left us the whole reckoning to pay.” 
Adams was going to answer, when their host came in, and, 
with a kind of jeering smile, said, “ Well, masters! the squire 
hath not sent his horses for you yet. Laud help me! how 
easily some folks make promises! ”—“ How ! ” says Adams; 
“ have you ever known him do anything of this kind be¬ 
fore?”—“Aye! marry have I,” answered the host: “it is 
no business of mine, you know, sir, to say anything to a gen¬ 
tleman to his face; but now he is not here, I will assure you, 
he hath not his fellow within the three next market-towns. 
I own I could not help laughing when I heard him offer you 
the living, for thereby hangs a good jest. I thought he would 
have offered you my house next, for one is no more his to 
dispose of than the other.” At these words Adams, blessing 
himself, declared, he had never read of such a monster. “ But 
what vexes me most,” says he, “ is, that he hath decoyed us 
into running up a long debt with you, which we are not able 
to pay, for we have no money about us, and, what is worse, 
live at such a distance, that if you should trust us, I am afraid 

*5 6 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


you would lose your money for want of our finding any con- 
veniency of sending it.”—“Trust you, master!” says the 
host, “ that I will with all my heart. I honour the clergy too 
much to deny trusting one of them for such a trifle; besides, 
I like your fear of never paying me. I have lost many a debt 
in my life-time, but was promised to be paid them all in a 
very short time. I will score this reckoning for the novelty 
of it. It is the first, I do assure you, of its kind. But what 
say you, master, shall we have t’other pot before we part? 
It will waste but a little chalk more, and if you never pay me 
a shilling the loss will not ruin me.” Adams liked the invi¬ 
tation very well, especially as it was delivered with so hearty 
an accent. He shook his host by the hand, and thanking him, 
said, he would tarry another pot rather for the pleasure of 
such worthy company than for the liquor; adding, he was 
glad to find some Christians left in the kingdom, for that he 
almost began to suspect that he was sojourning in a country 
inhabited only by Jews and Turks. 

The kind host produced the liquor, and Joseph with Fanny 
retired into the garden, where, while they solaced themselves 
with amorous discourse, Adams sat down with his host; and, 
both filling their glasses, and lighting their pipes, they began 
that dialogue which the reader will find in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MR ABRAHAM ADAMS AND HIS HOST, 
WHICH, BY THE DISAGREEMENT IN THEIR OPINIONS, 
SEEMED TO THREATEN AN UNLUCKY CATASTROPHE, HAD IT 
NOT BEEN TIMELY PREVENTED BY THE RETURN OF THE 
LOVERS. 

“QIR,” said the host, “ I assure you you are not the first to 
whom our squire hath promised more than he hath per¬ 
formed. He is so famous for this practice, that his word 
will not be taken for much by those who know him. I re¬ 
member a young fellow whom he promised his parents to 

i57 



THE ADVENTURES OE 


make an exciseman. The poor people, who could ill afford 
it, bred their son to writing and accounts, and other learning, 
to qualify him for the place; and the boy held up his head 
above his condition with these hopes; nor would he go to 
plough, nor to any other kind of work, and went constantly 
drest as fine as could be, with two clean Holland shirts 
a-week, and this for several years; till at last he followed the 
squire up to London, thinking there to mind him of his prom¬ 
ises ; but he could never get sight of him. So that, being out 
of money and business, he fell into evil company and 
wicked courses; and in the end came to a sentence of trans¬ 
portation, the news of which broke the mother’s heart.—I 
will tell you another true story of him: There was a neigh¬ 
bour of mine, a farmer, who had two sons whom he bred up 
to the business. Pretty lads they were. Nothing would 
serve the squire but that the youngest must be made a 
parson. Upon which he persuaded the father to send him 
to school, promising that he would afterwards maintain him 
at the university, and, when he was of a proper age, give 
him a living. But after the lad had been seven years at 
school, and his father brought him to the squire, with a letter 
from his master that he was fit for the university; the squire, 
instead of minding his promise, or sending him thither at 
his expense, only told his father that the young man 
was a fine scholar, and it was pity he could not afford to keep 
him at Oxford for four or five years more, by which time, 
if he could get him a curacy, he might have him ordained. 
The farmer said, he was not a man sufficient to do any such 
thing.—“ Why, then,” answered the squire, “ I am very sorry 
you have given him so much learning; for, if he cannot get 
his living by that, it vyiH rather spoil him for anything else; 
and your other son, who can hardly write his name, will do 
more at ploughing and sowing, and is in a better condition, 
than he.” And indeed so it proved; for the poor lad, not find¬ 
ing friends to maintain him in his learning, as he had ex¬ 
pected, and being unwilling to work, fell to drinking, though 
he was a very sober lad before; and in a short time, partly 
with grief, and partly with good liquor, fell into a consump¬ 
tion, and died.—Nay, I can tell you more still: there was an- 

158 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

other, a young woman, and the handsomest in all this neigh¬ 
bourhood, whom he enticed up to London, promising to 
make her a gentlewoman to one of your women of quality; 
but instead of keeping his word, we have since heard, after 
having a child by her himself, she became a common whore; 
then kept a coffee-house in Covent Garden; and a little after 
died of the French distemper in a gaol.—I could tell you 
many more stories; but how do you imagine he served me 
myself? You must know, sir, I was bred a sea-faring man, 
and have been many voyages; till at last I came to be master 
of a ship myself, and was in a fair way of making a fortune, 
when I was attacked by one of those cursed guarda-costas 
who took our ships before the beginning of the war; and 
after a fight, wherein I lost the greater part of my crew, my 
rigging being all demolished, and two shots received between 
wind and water, I was forced to strike. The villains carried 
off my ship, a brigantine of 150 tons,—a pretty creature she 
was,—and put me, a man, and a boy, into a little bad pink, 
in which, with much ado, we at last made Falmouth; though 
I believe the Spaniards did not imagine she could possibly 
live a day at sea. Upon my return hither, where my wife, 
who was of this country, then lived, the squire told me he 
was so pleased with the defence I had made against the 
enemy, that he did not fear getting me promoted to a lieu¬ 
tenancy of a man-of-war, if I would accept of it; which I 
thankfully assured him I would. Well, sir, two or three years 
passed, during which I had many repeated promises, not only 
from the squire, but (as he told me) from the lords of the 
admiralty. He never returned from London but I was as¬ 
sured I might be satisfied now, for I was certain of the first 
vacancy; and, what surprizes me still, when I reflect on it, 
these assurances were given me with no less confidence, after 
so many disappointments, than at first. At last, sir, growing 
weary, and somewhat suspicious, after so much delay, I wrote 
to a friend in London, who I knew had some acquaintance at 
the best house in the admiralty, and desired him to back the 
squire’s interest; for indeed I feared he had solicited the af¬ 
fair with more coldness than he pretended. And what an¬ 
swer do you think my friend sent me? Truly, sir, he ac- 

r 59 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


quainted me that the squire had never mentioned my name 
at the admiralty in his life; and, unless I had much faith- 
fuller interest, advised me to give over my pretensions; which 
I immediately did, and, with the concurrence of my wife, 
resolved to set up an alehouse, where ybu are heartily wel¬ 
come; and so my service to you; and may the squire, and 
all such sneaking rascals, go to the devil together.”—“ O 
fie! ” says Adams, “ O fie! He is indeed a wicked man ; but 
God will, I hope, turn his heart to repentance. Nay, if he 
could but once see the meanness of this detestable vice; would 
he but once reflect that he is one of the most scandalous as 
well as pernicious liars; sure he must despise himself to so 
intolerable a degree, that it would be impossible for him to 
continue a moment in such a course. And to confess the 
truth, notwithstanding the baseness of this character, which 
he hath too well deserved, he hath in his countenance suffi¬ 
cient symptoms of that bona indoles , that sweetness of dispo¬ 
sition, which furnishes out a good Christian.”—“ Ah, master! 
master! ” says the host, “ if you had travelled as far as I have, 
and conversed with the many nations where I have traded, 
you would not give any credit to a man’s countenance. 
Symptoms in his countenance, quotha! I would look there, 
perhaps, to see whether a man had the smallpox, but for 
nothing else.” He spoke this with so little regard to the 
parson’s observation, that it a good deal nettled him; and, 
taking the pipe hastily from his mouth, he thus answered: 
“ Master of mine, perhaps I have travelled a great deal far¬ 
ther than you without the assistance of a ship. Do you im¬ 
agine sailing by different cities or countries is travelling? 
No. 

‘ Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. 

I can go farther in an afternoon than you in a twelvemonth. 
What, I suppose you have seen the Pillars of Hercules, and 
perhaps the walls of Carthage. Nay, you may have heard 
Scylla, and seen Charybdis; you may have entered the closet 
where Archimedes was found at the taking of Syracuse. I 
suppose you have sailed among the Cyclades, and passed the 
famous straits which take their name from the unfortunate 

160 




JOSEPH ANDREWS 


Helle, whose fate is sweetly described by Apollonius Rhodius; 
you have passed the very spot, I conceive, where Daedalus 
fell into that sea, his waxen wings being melted by the sun; 
you have traversed the Euxine sea, I make no doubt; nay, 
you may have been on the banks of the Caspian, and called 
at Colchis, to see if there is ever another golden fleece.” 
“ Not I, truly, master,” answered the host: “ I never touched 
at any of these places.”—“ But I have been at all these,” re¬ 
plied Adams. “ Then, I suppose,” cries the host, “ you have 
been at the East Indies; for there are no such, I will be sworn, 
either in the West or the Levant.”—“ Pray where’s the Le¬ 
vant ? ” quoth Adams; “ that should be in the East Indies 
by right.” “ Oho! you are a pretty traveller,” cries the host, 
“ and not know the Levant! My service to you, master; you 
must not talk of these things with me! you must not tip us 
the traveller; it won’t go here.” “ Since thou art so dull to 
misunderstand me still,” quoth Adams, “ I will inform thee; 
the travelling I mean is in books, the only way of travelling 
by which any knowledge is to be acquired. From them I 
learn what I asserted just now, that nature generally imprints 
such a portraiture of the mind in the countenance, that a 
skilful physiognomist will rarely be deceived. I presume you 
have never read the story of Socrates to this purpose, and 
therefore I will tell it you. A certain physiognomist asserted 
of Socrates, that he plainly discovered by his features that he 
was a rogue in his nature. A character so contrary to the 
tenor of all this great man’s actions, and the generally re¬ 
ceived opinion concerning him, incensed the boys of Athens 
so that they threw stones at the physiognomist, and would 
have demolished him for his ignorance, had not Socrates 
himself prevented them by confessing the truth of his ob¬ 
servations, and acknowledging that, though he corrected his 
disposition by philosophy, he was indeed naturally as inclined 
to vice as had been predicted of him. Now, pray resolve me, 
—How should a man know this story if he had not read it ? ” 
“ Well, master,” said the host, “ and what signifies it whether 
a man knows it or no? He who goes abroad, as I have done, 
will always have opportunities enough of knowing the world 
without troubling his head with Socrates, or any such fel- 
11 161 


THE ADVENTURES OF 

'lows.” “ Friend,” cries Adams, “ if a man should sail round 
the world, and anchor in every harbour of it, without learn¬ 
ing, he would return home as ignorant as he went out.” 
“ Lord help you! ” answered the host; “ there was my boat¬ 
swain, poor fellow! he could scarce either write or read, and 
yet he would navigate a ship with any master of a man of 
war; and a very pretty knowledge of trade he had too.” 
“ Trade,” answered Adams, “ as Aristotle proves in his first 
chapter of Politics, is below a philosopher, and unnatural as it 
is managed now.” The host looked stedfastly at Adams, and 
after a minute’s silence asked him, if he was one of the writers 
of the Gazetteers? “for I have heard,” says he, “they are 
writ by parsons.” “ Gazetteers! ” answered Adams; “ What 
is that ? ” “ It is a dirty newspaper,” replied the host, “ which 
hath been given away all over the nation for these many 
years, to abuse trade and honest men, which I would not 
suffer to lie on my table, though it hath been offered me for 
nothing.” “ Not I truly,’.’ said Adams; “ I never write any¬ 
thing but sermons; and I assure you I am no enemy to trade, 
whilst it is consistent with honesty; nay, I have always looked 
on the tradesman as a very valuable member of society, and, 
perhaps, inferior to none but the man of learning.” “ No, I 
believe he is not, nor to him neither,” answered the host. 
“ Of what use would learning be in a country without trade ? 
What would all you parsons do to clothe your backs and 
feed your bellies? Who fetches you your silks, and your 
linens, and your wines, and all the other necessaries of life? 
I speak chiefly with regard to the sailors.” “ You should say 
the extravagancies of life,” replied the parson; “ but admit 
they were the necessaries, there is something more necessary 
than life itself, which is provided by learning; I mean the 
learning of the clergy. Who clothes you with piety, meek¬ 
ness, humility, charity, patience, and all the other Christian 
virtues? Who feeds your souls with the milk of brotherly 
love, and diets them with all the dainty food of holiness, 
which at once cleanses them of all impure carnal affections, 
and fattens them with the truly rich spirit of grace? Who 
doth this ? ” “ Ay, who, indeed ? ” cries the host; “ for I do 
not remember ever to have seen any such clothing or such 

162 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


feeding. And so, in the mean time, master, my service to 
you.” Adams was going to answer with some severity, when 
Joseph and Fanny returned and pressed his departure so 
eagerly that he would not refuse them; and so, grasping his 
crabstick, he took leave of his host (neither of them being so 
well pleased with each other as they had been at their first 
sitting down together), and with Joseph and Fanny, who 
both expressed much impatience, departed, and now all to¬ 
gether renewed their journey. 


£ 


163 


BOOK III. 


CHAPTER I. 

MATTER PREFATORY IN PRAISE OF BIOGRAPHY. 

N OTWITHSTANDING the preference which may be 
vulgarly given to the authority of those romance-wri¬ 
ters who entitle their books the History of England, the His¬ 
tory of France, of Spain, &c., it is most certain that truth is 
to be found only in the works of those who celebrate the lives 
of great men, and are commonly called biographers, as the 
others should indeed be termed topographers, or chorogra- 
phers; words which might well mark the distinction between 
them; it being the business of the latter chiefly to describe 
countries and cities, which, with the assistance of maps, they 
do pretty j ustly, and may be depended upon; but as to the ac¬ 
tions and characters of men, their writings are not quite so au¬ 
thentic, of which there needs no other proof than those eternal 
contradictions occurring between two topographers who un¬ 
dertake the history of the same country: for instance, between 
my Lord Clarendon and Mr Whitlock, between Mr Echard 
and Rapin, and many others; where, facts being set forth in 
a different light, every reader believes as he pleases; and, 
indeed, the more judicious and suspicious very justly esteem 
the whole as no other than a romance, in which the writer 
hath indulged a happy and fertile invention. But though 
these widely differ in the narrative of facts; some ascribing 
victory to the one, and others to the other party; some repre¬ 
senting the same mamas a rogue, to whom others give a great 
and honest character; yet all agree in the scene where the 
fact is supposed to have happened, and where the person, 
who is both a rogue and an honest man, lived. Now with 
us biographers the case is different; the facts we deliver may 

j.64 



THE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS 

• 

be relied on, though we often mistake the age and country 
wherein they happened: for, though it may be worth the 
examination of critics, whether the shepherd Chrysostom, 
who, as Cervantes informs us, died for love of the fair Mar¬ 
cella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will any one doubt 
but that such a silly fellow hath really existed? Is there in 
the world such a sceptic as to disbelieve the madness of Car- 
denio, the perfidy of Ferdinand, the impertinent curiosity of 
Anselmo, the weakness of Camilla, the irresolute friendship 
of Lothario? though perhaps, as to the time and place where 
those several persons lived, the good historian may be deplor¬ 
ably deficient. But the most known instance of this kind is 
in the true history of Gil Bias, where the inimitable biographer 
hath made a notorious blunder in the country of Dr San- 
grado, who used his patients as a vintner doth his wine-vessels, 
by letting out their blood, and filling them up with water. 
Doth not every one, who is the least versed in physical his¬ 
tory, know that Spain was not the country in which this doc¬ 
tor lived ? The same writer hath likewise erred in the country 
of his archbishop, as well as that of those great personages 
whose understandings were too sublime to taste anything but 
tragedy, and in many others. The same mistakes may like¬ 
wise be observed in Scarron, the Arabian Nights, the History 
of Marianne and le Paisan Parvenu, and perhaps some few 
other writers of this class, whom I have not read, or do not 
at present recollect; for I would by no means be thought to 
comprehend those persons of surprizing genius, the authors 
of immense romances, or the modern novel and Atalantis 
writers; who, without any assistance from nature or history, 
record persons who never were, or will be, and facts which 
never did, nor possibly can, happen; whose heroes are of their 
own creation, and their brains the chaos whence all the mate¬ 
rials are selected. Not that such writers deserve no honour; so 
far otherwise, that perhaps they merit the highest; for what 
can be nobler than to be as an example of the wonderful ex¬ 
tent of human genius ? One may apply to them what Balzac 
says of Aristotle, that they are a second nature (for they 
have no communication with the first; by which, authors of 
an inferior class, who cannot stand alone, are obliged to sup¬ 
port themselves as with crutches) ; but these of whom I am 

^5 



•THE ADVENTURES OF 


now speaking seem to be possessed of those stilts, which the 
excellent Voltaire tells us, in his letters, “ carry the genius 
far off, but without any regular pace.” Indeed, far out of 
the sight of the reader, 

Beyond the realms of Chaos and old Night. 

But to return to the former class, who are contented to 
copy nature, instead of forming originals from the confused 
heap of matter in their own brains; is not such a book as 
that which records the achievements of the renowned Don 
Quixote more worthy the name of a history than even Mari¬ 
ana’s : for, whereas the latter is confined to a particular period 
of time, and to a particular nation, the former is the history 
of the world in general, at least that part which is polished 
by laws, arts, and sciences; and of that from the time it was 
first polished to this day; nay, and forwards as long as it 
shall so remain? 

I shall now proceed to apply these observations to the work 
before us; for indeed I have set them down principally to 
obviate some constructions which the good-nature of mankind, 
who are always forward to see their friends’ virtues recorded, 
may put to particular parts. I question not but several of 
my readers will know the lawyer in the stage-coach the mo¬ 
ment they hear his voice. It is likewise odds but the wit and 
the prude meet with some of their acquaintance, as well as 
all the rest of my characters. To prevent therefore any such 
malicious applications, I declare here, once for all, I describe 
not men, but manners; not an individual, but a species. Per¬ 
haps it will be answered, are not the characters then taken 
from life? To which I answer in the affirmative; nay, I 
believe I might aver that I have writ little more than I have 
seen. The lawyer is not only alive, but hath been so these four 
thousand years; and I hope God will indulge his life as many 
yet to come. He hath not indeed confined himself to one pro¬ 
fession, one religion, or one country; but when the first mean 
selfish creature appeared on the human stage, who made self 
the centre of the whole creation, would give himself no pain, 
incur no danger, advance no money, to assist or preserve his 
fellow-creatures; then was our lawyer born; and, whilst such 

166 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


a person as I have described exists on earth, so long shall 
he remain upon it. It is therefore doing him little honour 
to imagine he endeavours to mimic some little obscure fel¬ 
low, because he happens to resemble him in one particular 
feature, or perhaps in his profession; whereas his appearance 
in the world is calculated for much more general and noble 
purposes; not to expose one pitiful wretch to the small and 
contemptible circle of his acquaintance; but to hold the glass 
to thousands in their closets, that they may contemplate their 
deformity, and endeavour to reduce it, and thus by suffering 
private mortification may avoid public shame. This places 
the boundary between, and distinguishes the satirist from the 
libeller: for the former privately corrects the fault for the 
benefit of the person, like a parent; the latter publicly ex¬ 
poses the person himself, as an example to others, like an 
executioner. 

There are besides little circumstances to be considered; as 
the drapery of a picture, which though fashion varies at dif¬ 
ferent times, the resemblance of the countenance is not by 
those means diminished. Thus I believe we may venture to 
say Mrs Tow-wouse is coeval with our lawyer: and, though 
perhaps, during the changes which so long an existence must 
have passed through, she may in her turn have stood behind 
the bar at an inn, I will not scruple to affirm she hath likewise 
in the revolution of ages sat on a throne. In short, where 
extreme turbulency of temper, avarice, and an insensibility 
of human misery, with a degree of hypocrisy, have united 
in a female composition, Mrs Tow-wouse was that woman; 
and where a good inclination, eclipsed by a poverty of spirit 
and understanding, hath glimmered forth in a man, that man 
hath been no other than her sneaking husband. 

I shall detain my reader no longer than to give him one 
caution more of an opposite kind: for, as in most of our 
particular characters we mean not to lash individuals, but all 
of the like sort, so, in our general descriptions, we mean not 
universals, but would be understood with many exceptions: 
for instance, in our description of high people, we cannot be 
intended to include such as, whilst they are an honour to 
their high rank, by a well-guided condescension make their 
superiority as easy as possible to those whom fortune chiefly 

167 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


hath placed below them. Of this number I could name a 
peer no less elevated by nature than by fortune; who, whilst 
he wears the noblest ensigns of honour on his person, bears 
the truest stamp of dignity on his mind, adorned with great¬ 
ness, enriched with knowledge,* and embellished with genius. 
I have seen this man relieve with generosity, while he hath 
conversed with freedom, and be to the same person a patron 
and a companion. I could name a commoner, raised higher 
above the multitude by superior talents than is in the power 
of his prince to exalt him; whose behaviour to those he hath 
obliged is more amiable than the obligation itself; and who 
is so great a master of affability, that, if he could divest him¬ 
self of an inherent greatness in his manner, would often make 
the lowest of his acquaintance forget who was the master 
of that palace in which they are so courteously entertained. 
These are pictures which must be, I believe, known: I de¬ 
clare they are taken from the life, and not intended to exceed 
it. By those high people, therefore, whom I have described, 
I mean a set of wretches, who, while they are a disgrace 
to their ancestors, whose honours and fortunes they inherit 
(or perhaps a greater to their mother, for such degeneracy 
is scarce credible), have the insolence to treat those with dis¬ 
regard who are at least equal to the founders of their own 
splendour. It is, I fancy, impossible to conceive a spectacle 
more worthy of our indignation, than that of a fellow, who is 
not only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family, but a 
scandal to the human species, maintaining a supercilious be¬ 
haviour to men who are an honour to their nature and a dis¬ 
grace to their fortune. 

And now, reader, taking these hints along with you, you 
may, if you please, proceed to the sequel of this our true 
history. 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


CHAPTER II. 

A NIGHT-SCENE, WHEREIN SEVERAL WONDERFUL ADVENTURES 
BEFEL ADAMS AND HIS FELLOW-TRAVELLERS. 

I T was so late when our travellers left the inn or alehouse 
(for it might be called either), that they had not travelled 
many miles before night overtook them, or met them, which 
you please. The reader must excuse me if I am not par¬ 
ticular as to the way they took; for, as we are now drawing 
near the seat of the Boobies, and as that is a ticklish name, 
which malicious persons may apply, according to their evil 
inclinations, to several worthy country squires, a race of men 
whom we look upon as entirely inoffensive, and for whom we 
have an adequate regard, we shall lend no assistance to any 
such malicious purposes. 

Darkness had now overspread the hemisphere, when Fanny 
whispered Joseph that she begged to rest herself a little; for 
that she was so tired she could walk no farther. Joseph im¬ 
mediately prevailed with parson Adams, who was as brisk 
as a bee, to stop. He had no sooner seated himself than he 
lamented the loss of his dear iEschylus; but was a little com¬ 
forted when reminded that, if he had it in his possession, he 
could not see to read. 

The sky was so clouded, that not a star appeared. It was 
indeed, according to Milton, darkness visible. This was a 
circumstance, however, very favourable to Joseph; for Fanny, 
not suspicious of being overseen by Adams, gave a loose to 
her passion which she had never done before, and, reclining 
her head on his bosom, threw her arm carelessly round him, 
and suffered him to lay his cheek close to hers. All this in¬ 
fused such happiness into Joseph, that he would not have 
changed his turf for the finest down in the finest palace in the 
universe. 

Adams sat at some distance from the lovers, and, being 
unwilling to disturb them, applied himself to meditation; in 
which he had not spent much time before he discovered a 
light at some distance that seemed approaching towards him. 
He immediately hailed it; but, to his sorrow and surprize, it 

169 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


stopped for a moment, and then disappeared. He then called 
to Joseph, asking him, if he had not seen the light? Joseph 
answered, he had.—“ And did you not mark how it vanished?” 
returned he: “ though I am not afraid of ghosts, I do not 
absolutely disbelieve them.” 

He then entered into a meditation on those unsubstantial 
beings; which was soon interrupted by several voices, which 
he thought almost at his elbow, though in fact they were not 
so extremely near. However, he could distinctly hear them 
agree on the murder of any one they met; and a little after 
heard one of them say, he had killed a dozen since that day 
fortnight. 

Adams now fell on his knees, and committed himself to the 
care of Providence; and poor Fanny, who.likewise heard 
those terrible words, embraced Joseph so closely, that had 
not he, whose ears were also open, been apprehensive on her 
account, he would have thought no danger which threatened 
only himself too dear a price for such embraces. 

Joseph now drew forth his penknife, and Adams, having 
finished his ejaculations, grasped his crab-stick, his only wea¬ 
pon, and, coming up to Joseph, would have had him quit 
Fanny, and place her in the rear; but his advice was fruitless ; 
she clung closer to him, not at all regarding the presence of 
Adams, and in a soothing voice declared, she would die in 
his arms. Joseph, clasping her with inexpressible eagerness, 
whispered her, that he preferred death in hers to life out of 
them. Adams, brandishing his crabstick, said, he despised 
death as much as any man, and then repeated aloud, 

Est hie, est animus lucis contemptor et ilium, 

Qui vita bene credat emi quo tendis, honorem. 

Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one 
of them called out, “ D—n you, who is there ? ” To which 
Adams was prudent enough to make no reply; and of a sud¬ 
den he observed half-a-dozen lights, which seemed to rise 
all at once from the ground and advance briskly towards him. 
This he immediately concluded to be an apparition; and now, 
beginning to conceive that the voices were of the same kind, 
he called out, “ In the name of the Lord, what wouldst thou 

170 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


have ? ” He had no sooner spoke than he heard one of the 
voices cry out, “ D—n them, here they come; ” and soon after 
heard several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been 
engaged at quarterstaff. He was just advancing towards the 
place of combat, when Joseph, catching him by the skirts, 
begged him that they might take the opportunity of the dark 
to convey away Fanny from the danger which threatened her. 
He presently complied, and, Joseph lifting up Fanny, they all 
three made the best of their way; and without looking behind 
them or being overtaken, they had travelled full two miles, 
poor Fanny not once complaining of being tired, when they 
saw afar off several lights scattered at a small distance from 
each other, and at the same time found themselves on the 
descent of a very steep hill. Adams’s foot slipping, he in¬ 
stantly disappeared, which greatly frightened both Joseph 
and Fanny: indeed, if the light had permitted them to see it, 
they would scarce have refrained laughing to see the parson 
rolling down the hill; which he did from top to bottom, with¬ 
out receiving any harm. He then hollowed as loud as he 
could, to inform them of his safety, and relieve them from 
the fears which they had conceived for him. Joseph and 
Fanny halted some time, considering what to do; at last they 
advanced a few paces, where the declivity seemed least steep; 
and then Joseph, taking his Fanny in his arms, walked firmly 
down the hill, without making a false step, and at length 
landed her at the bottom, where Adams soon came to them. 

Learn hence, my fair countrywomen, to consider your own 
weakness, and the many occasions on which the strength of 
a man may be useful to you; and, duly weighing this, take 
care that you match not yourselves with the spindle-shanked 
beaux and petit-maitres of the age, who, instead of being able, 
like Joseph Andrews, to carry you in lusty arms through the 
rugged ways and downhill steeps of life, will rather want to 
support their feeble limbs with your strength and assistance. 

Our travellers now moved forwards where the nearest light 
presented itself; and, having crossed a common field, they 
came to a meadow, where they seemed to be at a very little 
distance from the light, when, to their grief, they arrived at 
the banks of a river. Adams here made a full stop, and de¬ 
clared he could swim, but doubted how it was possible to get 

I 7 I 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


Fanny over: to which Joseph answered, if they walked along 
its banks, they might be certain of soon finding a bridge, 
especially as by the number of lights they might be assured 
a parish was near. “ Odso, that’s true indeed,” said Adams; 
“ I did not think of that.” 

Accordingly, Joseph’s advice being taken, they passed over 
two meadows, and came to a little orchard, which led them 
to a house. Fanny begged of Joseph to knock at the door, 
assuring him she was so weary that she could hardly stand on 
her feet. Adams, who was foremost, performed this cere¬ 
mony; and, the door being immediately opened, a plain kind 
of man appeared at it: Adams acquainted him that they had 
a young woman with them who was so tired with her journey 
that he should be much obliged to him if he would suffer her 
to come in and rest herself. The man, who saw Fanny by 
the light of the candle which he held in his hand, perceiving 
her innocent and modest look, and having no apprehensions 
from the civil behaviour of Adams, presently answered, that 
the young woman was very welcome to rest herself in his 
house, and so were her company. He then ushered them into 
a very decent room, where his wife was sitting at a table: 
she immediately rose up, and assisted them in setting forth 
chairs, and desired them to sit down; which they had no 
sooner done than the man of the house asked them if they 
would have anything to refresh themselves with? Adams 
thanked him, and answered he should be obliged to him for a 
cup of his ale, which was likewise chosen by Joseph and 
Fanny. Whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with 
this liquor, his wife told Fanny she seemed greatly fatigued, 
and desired her to take something stronger than ale; but she 
refused with many thanks, saying it was true she was very 
much tired, but a little rest she hoped would restore her. 
As soon as the company were all seated, Mr Adams, who had 
filled himself with ale, and by public permission had lighted 
his pipe, turned to the master of the house, asking him, if 
evil spirits did not use to walk in that neighbourhood? To 
which receiving no answer, he began to inform him of the 
adventure which they had met with on the downs; nor had 
he proceeded far in the story when somebody knocked very 
hard at the door. The company expressed some amazement, 

172 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

and Fanny and the good woman turned pale: her husb^ 
went forth, and whilst he was absent, which was some time, 
they all remained silent, looking at one another, and heard 
several voices discoursing pretty loudly. Adams was fully 
persuaded that spirits were abroad, and began to meditate 
some exorcisms; Joseph a little inclined to the same opinion; 
Fanny was more afraid of men; and the good woman herself 
began to suspect her guests, and imagined those without were 
rogues belonging to their gang. At length the master of the 
house returned, and, laughing, told Adams he had discovered 
his apparition; that the murderers were sheep-stealers, and the 
twelve persons murdered were no other than twelve sheep; 
adding, that the shepherds had got the better of them, had 
secured two, and were proceeding with them to a justice of 
peace. This account greatly relieved the fears of the whole 
company; but Adams muttered to himself, he was convinced 
of the truth of apparitions for all that. 

They now sat cheerfully round the fire, till the master of 
the house, having surveyed his guests, and conceiving that 
the cassock, which, having fallen down, appeared under 
Adams’s great-coat, and the shabby livery on Joseph Andrews, 
did not well suit with the familiarity between them, began 
to entertain some suspicions not much to their advantage: 
addressing himself therefore to Adams, he said, he perceived 
he was a clergyman by his dress, and supposed that honest 
man was his footman. “ Sir,” answered Adams, “ I am a 
clergyman at your service; but as to that young man, whom 
you have rightly termed honest, he is at present in nobody’s 
service; he never lived in any other family than that 
of Lady Booby, from whence he was discharged, I assure you, 
for no crime.” Joseph said, he did not wonder the gentle¬ 
man was surprized to see one of Mr Adams’s character con¬ 
descend to so much goodness with a poor man. “ Child,” said 
Adams, “ I should be ashamed of my cloth if I thought a poor 
man, who is honest, below my notice or my familiarity. I 
know not how those who think otherwise can profess them¬ 
selves followers and servants of Him who made no distinction, 
unless, peradventure, by preferring the poor to the rich.—Sir,” 
said he, addressing himself to the gentleman, “these two 
poor young people are my parisioners, and I look on them 

H3 



THE ADVENTURES OF 

a love them as my children. There is something singular 
enough in their history, but I have not now time to recount 
it.” The master of the house, notwithstanding the simplicity 
which discovered itself in Adams, knew too much of the world 
to give a hasty belief to professions. He was not yet quite 
certain that Adams had any more of the clergyman in him 
than his cassock. To try him therefore further, he asked him, 
if Mr Pope had lately published anything new? Adams 
answered, he had heard great commendations of that poet, 
but that he had never read nor knew any of his works. “ Ho! 
ho! ” says the gentleman to himself, “ have I caught you ? 
What! ” said he, “ have you never seen his Homer ? ” Adams 
answered, he had never read any translation of the classics. 
“ Why, truly,” replied the gentleman, “ there is a dignity in 
the Greek language which I think no modern tongue can 
reach.”—“ Do you understand Greek, sir?” said Adams 
hastily. “ A little, sir,” answered the gentleman. “ Do you 
know, sir,” cried Adams, “ where I can buy an ^Eschylus ? an 
unlucky misfortune lately happened to mine.” ^Eschylus was 
beyond the gentleman, though he knew him very well by 
name; he therefore, returning back to Homer, asked Adams, 
what part of the Iliad he thought most excellent? Adams 
returned, his question would be properer, What kind of beauty 
was the chief in poetry ? for that Homer was equally excellent 
in them all. “ And, indeed,” continued he, “ what Cicero 
says of a complete orator may well be applied to a great poet: 
He ought to comprehend all perfections. Homer did this 
in the most excellent degree; it is not without reason, there¬ 
fore, that the philosopher, in the twenty-second chapter of his 
Poetics, mentions him by no other appellation than that of 
the Poet. He was the father of the drama as well as the 
epic; not of tragedy only, but of comedy also; for his Mar- 
gites, which is deplorably lost, bore,'says Aristotle, the same 
analogy to comedy as his Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To 
him, therefore, we owe Aristophanes as well as Euripides, 
Sophocles, and my poor Aeschylus. But if you please we 
will confine ourselves (at least for the present) to the Iliad, 
his noblest work ; though neither Aristotle nor Horace give 
it the preference, as I remember, to the Odyssey. First, then, 
as to his subject, can anything be more simple, and at the 

174 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


same time more noble ? He is rightly praised by ponded 
those judicious critics for not choosing the whole wai,f or s he 
though he says it hath a complete beginning and end. Wing; 
have been too great for the understanding to comprehend i V 
one view. I have, therefore, often wondered why so correct 
a writer as Horace should, in his epistle to Lollius, call him 
the Trojani Belli Scriptorem. Secondly, his action, termed 
by Aristotle, Pragmaton Systasis; is it possible for the mind 
of man to conceive an idea of such perfect unity, and at the 
same time so replete with greatness? And here I must ob¬ 
serve, what I do not remember to have seen noted by any, 
the Harmotton, that agreement of his action to his subject: 
for, as the subject is anger, how agreeable is his action, which 
is war; from which every incident arises and to which every 
episode immediately relates. Thirdly, his manners, which 
Aristotle places second in his description of the several parts 
of tragedy, and which he says are included in the action; 
I am at a loss whether I should rather admire the exactness 
of his judgment in the nice distinction or the immensity of his 
imagination in their variety. For, as to the former of 
these, how accurately is the sedate, injured resentment of 
Achilles, distinguished from the hot, insulting passion of 
Agamemnon! How widely doth the brutal courage of Ajax 
differ from the amiable bravery of Diomedes; and the wis¬ 
dom of Nestor, which is the result of long reflection and ex¬ 
perience, from the cunning of Ulysses, the effect of art and 
subtlety only! If we consider their variety, we may cry out, 
with Aristotle in his 24th chapter, that no part of this divine 
poem is destitute of manners. Indeed, I might affirm that 
there is scarce a character in human nature untouched in some 
part or other. And, as there is no passion which he is not 
able to describe, so is there none in his reader which he can¬ 
not raise. If he hath any superior excellence to the rest, I 
have been inclined to fancy it is in the pathetic. I am sure 
I never read with dry eyes the two episodes where Androm¬ 
ache is introduced in the former lamenting the danger, and 
in the latter the death, of Hector. The images are so ex¬ 
tremely tender in these, that I am convinced the poet had 
the worthiest and best heart imaginable. Nor can I help ob¬ 
serving how Sophocles falls short of the beauties of the origi- 

U5 



HE ADVENTURES OF 


imitation of the dissuasive speech of Andromache 
e hath put into the mouth of Tecmessa. And yet 
.odes was the greatest genius who ever wrote tragedy; 
r have any of his successors in that art, that is to say, neither 
Euripides nor Seneca the tragedian, been able to come near 
him. As to his sentiments and diction, I need say nothing; 
the former are particularly remarkable for the utmost per¬ 
fection on that head, namely, propriety; and as to the latter, 
Aristotle, whom doubtless you have read over and over, is 
very diffuse. I shall mention but one thing more, which that 
great critic in his division of tragedy calls Opsis, or the 
scenery; and which is as proper to the epic as to the drama, 
with this difference, that in the former it falls to the share of 
the poet, and in the latter to that of the painter. But did ever 
painter imagine a scene like that in the 13th and 14th Iliads? 
where the reader sees at one view the prospect of Troy, with 
the army drawn up before it; the Grecian army, camp, and 
fleet; Jupiter sitting on Mount Ida, with his head wrapt in a 
cloud, and a thunderbolt in his hand, looking towards Thrace; 
Neptune driving through the sea, which divides on each side 
to permit his passage, and then seating himself on Mount 
Samos; the heavens opened, and the deities all seated on 
their thrones. This is sublime! This is poetry! ” Adams 
then rapt out a hundred Greek verses, and with such a voice, 
emphasis, and action, that he almost frightened the women; 
and as for the gentleman, he was so far from entertaining any 
further suspicion of Adams, that he now doubted whether 
he had not a bishop in his house. He ran into the most ex¬ 
travagant encomiums on his learning; and the goodness of his 
heart began to dilate to all the strangers. He said he had 
great compassion for the poor young woman, who looked 
pale and faint with her journey; and in truth he conceived a 
much higher opinion of her quality than it deserved. He said 
he was sorry he could not accommodate them all: but if they 
were contented with his fire-side, he would set up with the 
men; and the young woman might, if she pleased, partake his 
wife’s bed, which he advised her to; for that they must walk 
upwards of a mile to any house of entertainment, and 
that not very good neither. Adams, who liked his seat, his 
ale, his tobacco, and his company, persuaded Fanny to accept 

176 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


this kind proposal, in which solicitation he was seconded 
Joseph. Nor was she very difficultly prevailed on; for she 
had slept little the last night and not at all the preceding; 
so that love itself was scarce able to keep her eyes open any 
longer. The offer therefore being kindly accepted, the good 
woman produced everything eatable in her house on the table, 
and the guests, being heartily invited, as heartily regaled them¬ 
selves, especially parson Adams. As to the other two, they 
were examples of the truth of that physical observation, that 
love, like other sweet things, is no whetter of the stomach. 

Supper was no sooner ended, than Fanny at her own re¬ 
quest retired, and the good woman bore her company. The 
man of the house, Adams, and Joseph, who would modestly 
have withdrawn, had not the gentleman insisted on the con¬ 
trary, drew round the fire-side, where Adams (to use his own 
words) replenished his pipe, and the gentleman produced a 
bottle of excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house. 

The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the gracefulness of 
his person, the character which Adams gave of him, and the 
friendship he seemed to entertain for him, began to work on 
the gentleman’s affections, and raised in him a curiosity to 
know the singularity which Adams had mentioned in his his¬ 
tory. This curiosity Adams was no sooner informed of than, 
with Joseph’s consent, he agreed to gratify it; and accordingly 
related all he knew, with as much tenderness as was possible 
for the character of Lady Booby; and concluded with the 
long, faithful, and mutual passion between him and Fanny, 
not concealing the meanness of her birth and education. 
These latter circumstances entirely cured a jealousy which 
had lately risen in the gentleman’s mind, that Fanny was the 
daughter of some person of fashion, and that Joseph had 
run away with her, and Adams was concerned in the plot. 
He was now enamoured of his guests, drank their healths 
with greht cheerfulness, and returned many thanks to Adams, 
who had spent much breath, for he was a circumstantial 
teller of a story. 

Adams told him it was now in his power to return that 
favour; for his extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund 
of literature he was master of,* which he did not expect to 
* The author hath by some been represented to have made a blunder 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


a under such a roof, had raised in him more curiosity than 
ne had ever known. “ Therefore,’’ said he, “ if it be not too 
troublesome, sir, your history if you please.” 

The gentleman answered, he could not refuse him what 
he had so much right to insist on; and after some of the 
common apologies, which are the usual preface to a story, he 
thus began. 


CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH THE GENTLEMAN RELATES THE HISTORY OF 
HIS LIFE. 

S IR, I am descended of a good family, and was born a 
gentleman. My education was liberal, and at a public 
school, in which I proceeded so far as to become master of 
the Latin, and to be tolerably versed in the Greek language. 
My father died when I was sixteen, and left me master of 
myself. He bequeathed me a moderate fortune, which he 
intended I should not receive till I attained the age of twenty- 
five : for he constantly asserted that was full early enough 
to give up any man entirely to the guidance of his own dis¬ 
cretion. However, as this intention was so obscurely worded 
in his will that the lawyers advised me to contest the point 
with my trustees, I own I paid so little regard to the incli¬ 
nations of my dead father, which were sufficiently certain to 

here: for Adams had indeed shown some learning (say they), perhaps 
all the author had; but the gentleman hath shown none, unless his ap¬ 
probation of Mr. Adams be such: but surely it would be preposterous 
in him to call it so. I have, however, notwithstanding this criticism, 
which I am told came from the mouth of a great orator in a public 
coffee-house, left this blunder as it stood in the first edition. I will 
not have the vanity to apply to anything in this work the observation 
which M. Dacier makes in her preface to her Aristophanes: Je tiens 
pour une maxime constante, qu’une beaute mediocre plait plus generale- 
ment qu’une beaute sans defaut. Mr. Congreve hath made such an¬ 
other blunder in his Love for Love, where Tattle tells Miss Prue, 
‘ She should admire him as much for the beauty he commends in her 
as if he himself was possessed of it/ 

i 7 s 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


me, that I followed their advice, and soon succeeded, for the 
trustees did not contest the matter very obstinately on their 
side. “ Sir/’ said Adams, “ may I crave the favour of your 
name ? ” The gentleman answered his name was Wilson, 
and then proceeded. 

I stayed a very little while at school after his death; for, 
being a forward youth, I was extremely impatient to be in 
the world, for which I thought my parts, knowledge, and 
manhood, thoroughly qualified me. And to this early intro¬ 
duction into life, without a guide, I impute all my future 
misfortunes; for, besides the obvious mischiefs which attend 
this, there is one which hath not been so generally observed: 
the first impression which mankind receives of you will be 
very difficult to eradicate. How unhappy, therefore, must it 
be to fix your character in life, before you can possibly know 
its value, or weigh the consequences of those actions which 
are to establish your future reputation! 

A little under seventeen I left my school, and went to Lon¬ 
don with no more than six pounds in my pocket: a great sum, 
as I then conceived; and which I was afterwards surprized 
to find so soon consumed. 

The character I was ambitious of attaining was that of a 
fine gentleman; the first requisites to which I apprehended 
were to be supplied by a tailor, a periwig-maker, and some 
few more tradesmen, who deal in furnishing out the human 
body. Notwithstanding the lowness of my purse, I found 
credit with them more easily than I expected, and was soon 
equipped to my wish. This I own then agreeably surprized 
me; but I have since learned that it is a maxim among many 
tradesmen at the polite end of the town to deal as largely as 
they can, reckon as high as they can, and arrest as soon as they 
can. 

The f next qualifications, namely, dancing, fencing, riding 
the great horse, and music, came into my head: but, as they 
required expense and time, I comforted myself, with regard 
to dancing, that I had learned a little in my youth, and could 
walk a minuet genteelly enough; as to fencing, I thought 
my good-humour would preserve me from the danger of a 
quarrel; as to the horse, I hoped it would not be thought of; 
and for music, I imagined I could easily acquire the reputa- 

179 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


tion of it; for I had heard some of my school-fellows pretend 
to knowledge in operas, without being able to sing or play 
on the fiddle. 

Knowledge of the town seemed another ingredient; this 
I thought I should arrive at by frequenting public places. 
Accordingly I paid constant attendance to them all; by which 
means I was soon master of the fashionable phrases, learned 
to cry up the fashionable diversions, and knew the names and 
faces of the most fashionable men and women. 

Nothing now seemed to remain but an intrigue, which I 
was resolved to have immediately; I mean the reputation of 
it; and indeed I was so successful, that in a very short time 
I had half-a-dozen with the finest women in the town. 

At these words Adams fetched a deep groan, and then, 
blessing himself, cried out, “ Good Lord! what wicked times 
these are! ” 

Not so wicked as you imagine, continued the gentleman; 
for I assure you they were all vestal virgins for anything 
which I knew to the contrary. The reputation of intriguing 
with them was all I sought, and was what I arrived at: and 
perhaps I only flattered myself even in that; for very prob¬ 
ably the persons to whom I showed their billets knew as 
well as I that they were counterfeits, and that I had written 
them to myself. “ Write letters to yourself! ” said Adams, 
staring. O sir, answered the gentleman, it is the very error 
of the times. Half our modern plays have one of these char¬ 
acters in them. It is incredible the pains I have taken, and 
the absurd methods I employed, to traduce the character of 
women of distinction. When another had spoken in raptures 
of any one, I have answered, “ D—n her, she! We shall 

have her at H-d’s very soon.” When he hath replied, 

he thought her virtuous, I have answered, “ Aye, thou wilt 
always think a woman virtuous, till she is in the streets; 
but you and I, Jack or Tom (turning to another in company), 
know better.” At which I have drawn a paper out of my 
pocket, perhaps a tailor’s bill, and kissed it, crying at the 
same time, “ By Gad I was once fond of her.” 

“ Proceed, if you please, but do not swear any more,” said 
Adams. 

Sir, said the gentleman, I ask your pardon. Well, sir, in 
180 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


this course of life I continued full three years—“ What course 
of life ? ” answered Adams; “ I do not remember you have 
mentioned any.”—Your remark is just, said the gentleman, 
smiling; I should rather have said, in this course of doing 
nothing. I remember some time afterwards I wrote the jour¬ 
nal of one day, which would serve, I believe, as well for any 
other during the whole time. I will endeavour to repeat it 
to you. 

In the morning I arose, took my great stick, and walked 
out in my green frock, with my hair in papers (a groan from 
Adams), and sauntered about till ten. Went to the auction; 
told lady-she had a dirty face; laughed heartily at some¬ 
thing captain - said, I can’t remember what, for I did 

not very well hear it; whispered lord-; bowed to the duke 

of-; and was going to bid for a snuff-box, but did not, 

for fear I should have had it. 

From 2 to 4, drest myself. A groan. 

4 to 6, dined. A groan. 

6 to 8, coffee-house. 

8 to 9, Drury-lane playhouse. 

9 to 10, Lincoln’s Inn Fields. 

10 to 12, Drawing-room. A great groan. 

At all which places nothing happened worth remark. 

At which Adams said, with some vehemence, “ Sir, this is 
below the life of an animal, hardly above vegetation: and I 
am surprized what could lead a man of your sense into it.” 
What leads us into more follies than you imagine, doctor, an¬ 
swered the gentleman—vanity; for as contemptible a creature 
as I was, and I assure you, yourself cannot have more con¬ 
tempt for such a wretch than I now have, I then admired 
myself, and should have despised a person of your present 
appearance (you will pardon me), with all your learning 
and those excellent qualities which I have remarked in you. 
Adams bowed, and begged him to proceed. After I had con¬ 
tinued two years in this course of life, said the gentleman, 
an accident happened which obliged me to change the scene. 
As I was one day at St James’s coffee-house, making very 
free with the character of a young lady of quality, an officer 

181 









THE ADVENTURES OF 

of the guards, who was present, thought proper to give me 
the lie. I answered I might possibly be mistaken, but I 
intended to tell no more than the truth. To which he made 
no reply but by a scornful sneer. After this I observed a 
strange coldness in all my acquaintance; none of them spoke 
to me first, and very few returned me even the civility of a 
bow. The company I used to dine with left me out, and 
within a week I found myself in as much solitude at St 
James’s as if I had been in a desert. An honest elderly man, 
with a great hat and long sword, at last told me he had a 
compassion for my youth, and therefore advised me to show 
the world I was not such a rascal as they thought me to be. 
I did not at first understand him; but he explained himself, 
and ended with telling me, if I would write a challenge to 
the captain, he would, out of pure charity, go to him with it. 
“ A very charitable person, truly! ” cried Adams. I desired 
till the next day, continued the gentleman, to consider on it, 
and, retiring to my lodgings, I weighed the consequences on 
both sides as fairly as I could. On the one, I saw the risk 
of this alternative, either losing my own life, or having on 
my hands the blood of a man with whom I was not in the least 
angry. I soon determined that the good which appeared on 
the other was not worth this hazard. I therefore resolved 
to quit the scene, and presently retired to the Temple, where I 
took chambers. Here I soon got a fresh set of acquaintance, 
who knew nothing of what had happened to me. Indeed, they 
were not greatly to my approbation; for the beaux of the 
Temple are only the shadows of the others. They are the 
affectation of affectation. The vanity of these is still more 
ridiculous, if possible, than of the others. Here I met with 
smart fellows who drank with lords they did not know, and 
intrigued with women they never saw. Covent Garden was 
now the farthest stretch of my ambition; where I.shone forth 
in the balconies at the playhouses, visited whores, made love 
to orange-wenches, and damned plays. This career was soon 
put a stop to by my surgeon, who convinced me of the neces¬ 
sity of confining myself to my room for a month. At the end 
of which, having had leisure to reflect, I resolved to quit all 
farther conversation with beaux and smarts of every kind, 
and to avoid, if possible, any occasion of returning to this 

182 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


place of confinement. “ I think,” said Adams, “ the advice 
of a month’s retirement and reflection was very proper; but 
I should rather have expected it from a divine than a sur¬ 
geon.” The gentleman smiled at Adams’s simplicity, and, 
without explaining himself farther on such an odious sub¬ 
ject, went on thus: I was no sooner perfectly restored to 
health than I found my passion for women, which I was 
afraid to satisfy as I had done, made me very uneasy; I deter¬ 
mined, therefore, to keep a mistress. Nor was I long before I 
fixed my choice on a young woman, who had before been kept 
by two gentlemen, and to whom I was recommended by a 
celebrated bawd. I took her home to my chambers, and made 
her a settlement during cohabitation. This would, perhaps, 
have been very ill paid: however, she did not suffer me to be 
perplexed on that account; for, before quarter-day, I found 
her at my chambers in too familiar conversation with a young 
fellow who was drest like an officer, but was indeed a city 
apprentice. Instead of excusing her inconstancy, she rapped 
out half-a-dozen oaths, and, snapping her fingers at me, swore 
she scorned to confine herself to the best man in England. 
Upon this we parted, and the same bawd presently provided 
her another keeper. I was not so much concerned at our 
separation as I found, within a day or two, I had reason to 
be for our meeting; for I was obliged to pay a second visit 
to my surgeon. I was now forced to do penance for some 
weeks, during which time I contracted an acquaintance with 
a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a gentleman who, after 
having been forty years in the army, and in all the campaigns 
under the Duke of Marlborough, died a lieutenant on half 
pay, and had left a widow, with this only child, in very distrest 
circumstances: they had only a small pension from the gov¬ 
ernment, with what little the daughter could add to it by her 
work, for she had great excellence at her needle. This girl 
was, at my first acqaintance with her, solicited in marriage 
by a young fellow in good circumstances. He was apprentice 
to a linen-draper, and had a little fortune, sufficient to set up 
his trade. The mother was greatly pleased with this match, 
as indeed she had sufficient reason. However, I soon pre¬ 
vented it. I represented him in so low a light to his mistress, 
and made so good an use of flattery, promises, and presents, 

i 8 3 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


that, not to dwell longer on this subject than is necessary, I 
prevailed with the poor girl, and conveyed her away from her 
mother! In a word, I debauched her.— (At which words 
Adams started up, fetched three strides across the room, and 
then replaced himself in his chair.) You are not more af¬ 
fected with this part of my story than myself; I assure you 
it will never be sufficiently repented of in my own opinion: 
but, if you already detest it, how much more will your indigna¬ 
tion be raised when you hear the fatal conseqences of this bar¬ 
barous, this villanous action! If you please, therefore, I will 
here desist.—“ By no means,” cries Adams; “ go on, I beseech 
you; and Heaven grant you may sincerely repent of this and 
many other things you have related! ”—I was now, continued 
the gentleman, as happy as the possession of a fine young crea¬ 
ture, who had a good education, and was endued with many 
agreeable qualities, could make me. We lived some months 
with vast fondness together, without any company or conver¬ 
sation, more than we found in one another: but this could not 
continue always; and, though I still preserved a great affec¬ 
tion for her, I began more and more to want relief of other 
company, and consequently to leave her by degrees—at last, 
whole days to herself. She failed not to testify some uneasi¬ 
ness on these occasions, and complained of the melancholy 
life she led; to remedy which, I introduced her into the ac¬ 
quaintance of some other kept mistresses, with whom she' 
used to play at cards, and frequent plays and other diversions. 
She had not lived long in this intimacy before I perceived a 
visible alteration in her behaviour; all her modesty and inno¬ 
cence vanished by degrees, till her mind became thoroughly 
tainted. She affected the company of rakes, gave herself all 
manner of airs, was never easy but abroad, or when she had 
a party at my chambers. She was rapacious of money, ex¬ 
travagant to excess, loose in her conversation; and, if ever I 
demurred to any of her demands, oaths, tears, and fits were 
the immediate consequences. As the first raptures of fondness 
were long since over, this behaviour soon estranged my affec¬ 
tions from her; I began to reflect with pleasure that she was 
not my wife, and to conceive an intention of parting with her; 
of which having given her a hint, she took care to prevent 
me the pains of turning her out of doors, and accordingly 

184 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


departed herself, having first broken open my esci. ost j ier 
taken with her all she could find, to the amount of atx v tQ me 
In the first heat of my resentment I resolved to purs.. 
with all the vengeance of the law: but, as she had the 
luck to escape me during that ferment, my passion afterwai,^ 
cooled; and, having reflected that I had been the first ag¬ 
gressor, and had done her an injury for which I could make 
her no reparation, by robbing her of the innocence of her 
mind; and hearing at the same time that the poor old woman 
her mother had broke her heart on her daughter’s elopement 
from her, I, concluding myself her murderer (“As you very 
well might,” cries Adams, with a groan), was pleased that 
God Almighty had taken this method of punishing me, and re¬ 
solved quietly to submit to the loss. Indeed, I could wish I 
had never heard more of the poor creature, who became in the 
end an abandoned profligate; and, after being some years a 
common prostitute, at last ended her miserable life in New¬ 
gate.—Here the gentleman fetched a deep sigh, which Mr 
Adams echoed very loudly; and both continued silent, looking 
on each other for some minutes. At last the gentleman pro¬ 
ceeded thus: I had been perfectly constant to this girl during 
the whole time I kept her: but she had scarce departed before 
I discovered more marks of her infidelity to me than the 
loss of my money. In short, I was forced to make a third 
visit to my surgeon, out of whose hands I did not get a hasty 
discharge. 

I now forswore all future dealings with the sex, complained 
loudly that the pleasure did not compensate the pain, and 
railed at the beautiful creatures in as gross language as 
Juvenal himself formerly reviled them in. I looked on all 
the town harlots with a detestation not easy to be conceived, 
their persons appeared to me as painted palaces, inhabited 
by Disease and Death: nor could their beauty make them 
more desirable objects in my eyes than gilding could make 
me covet a pill, or golden plates a coffin. But though I was 
no longer the absolute slave, I found some reasons to 
own myself still the subject, of love. My hatred for women 
decreased daily; and I am not positive but time might have 
betrayed me again to some common harlot, had I not been 
secured by a passion for the charming Sapphira, which, hav- 

i8 5 


' THE ADVENTURES OF 


that not tr- n t ere d upon, made a violent progress in my heart. 
prevailed* 1 was w ^ e to a man fashion and gallantry, and 
mother 110 seemed, I own, every way worthy of her affections; 
Ada rJ li> however, he had not the reputation of having. She 
t j lf as indeed a coquette achevee. “ Pray, sir,” says Adams, 
f ‘ what is a coquette? I have met with the word in French 
authors, but never could assign any idea to it. I believe it is 
the same with une sotte, Anglice, a fool.” Sir, answered the 
gentleman, perhaps you are not much mistaken; but, as it is a 
particular kind of folly, I will endeavour to describe it. Were 
all creatures to be ranked in the order of creation according to 
their usefulness, I know few animals that would not take place 
of a coquette; nor indeed hath this creature much pretence 
to anything beyond instinct; for, though sometimes we might 
imagine it was animated by the passion of vanity, yet far the 
greater part of its actions fall beneath even that low motive; 
for instance, several absurd gestures and tricks, infinitely 
more foolish than what can be observed in the most ridicu¬ 
lous birds and beasts, and which would persuade the beholder 
that the silly wretch was aiming at our contempt. Indeed 
its characteristic is affectation, and this led and governed by 
whim only: for as beauty, wisdom, wit, good-nature, polite¬ 
ness, and health, are sometimes affected by this creature, so 
are ugliness, folly, nonsense, ill-nature, ill-breeding, and 
sickness, likewise put on by it in their turn. Its life is one 
constant lie; and the only rule by which you can form any 
judgment of them is, that they are never what they seem. 
If it was possible for a coquette to love (as it is not, for if 
ever it attains this passion the coquette ceases instantly), it 
would wear the face of indifference, if not of hatred, to the 
beloved object; you may therefore be assured, when they 
endeavour to persuade you of their liking, that they are in¬ 
different to you at least. And indeed this was the case of 
my Sapphira, who no sooner saw me in the number of her 
admirers than she gave me what is commonly called encour¬ 
agement : she would often look at me, and, when she per¬ 
ceived me meet her eyes, would instantly take them off, dis¬ 
covering at the same time as much surprize and emotion as 
possible. These arts failed not of the success she intended; 

186 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


and, as I grew more particular to her than the rest of her 
admirers, she advanced, in proportion, more directly to me 
than to the others. She affected the low voice, whisper, lisp, 
sigh, start, laugh, and many other indications of passion 
which daily deceive thousands. When I played at whist with 
her, she would look earnestly at me, and at the same time 
lose deal or revoke; then burst into a ridiculous laugh, and 
cry, “La! I can’t imagine what I was thinking of.” To 
detain you no longer, after I had gone through a sufficient 
course of gallantry, as I thought, and was thoroughly con¬ 
vinced I had raised a violent passion in my mistress, I sought 
an opportunity of coming to an eclaircissement with her. 
She avoided this as much as possible; however, great as¬ 
siduity at length presented me one. I will not describe all 
the particulars of this interview; let it suffice that, when she 
could no longer pretend not to see my drift, she first affected 
a violent surprize, and immediately after as violent a pas¬ 
sion : she wondered what I had seen in her conduct which 
could induce me to affront her in this manner; and, break¬ 
ing from me the first moment she could, told me I had no 
other way to escape the consequence of her resentment than 
by never seeing, or at least speaking to her more. I was not 
contented with this answer; I still pursued her, but to no 
purpose; and was at length convinced that her husband had 
the sole possession of her person, and that neither he nor 
any other had made any impression on her heart. I was 
taken off from following this ignis fatuus by some advances 
which were made me by the wife of a citizen, who, though 
neither very young nor handsome, was yet too agreeable to 
be rejected by my amorous constitution. I accordingly soon 
satisfied her that she had not cast away her hints on a barren 
or cold soil: on the contrary, they instantly produced her an 
eager and desiring lover. Nor did she give me any reason 
to complain; she met the warmth she had raised with equal 
ardour. I had no longer a coquette to deal with, but one who 
was wiser than to prostitute the noble passion of love to the 
ridiculous lust of vanity. We presently understood one an¬ 
other ; and, as the pleasures we sought lay in a mutual grati¬ 
fication, we soon found and enjoyed them. I thought myself 

187 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


at first greatly happy in the possession of this new mistress, 
whose fondness would have quickly surfeited a more sickly 
appetite; but it had a different effect on mine: she carried 
my passion higher by it than youth or beauty had been able. 
But my happiness could not long continue uninterrupted. 
The apprehensions we lay under from the jealousy of her hus¬ 
band gave us great uneasiness. “ Poor wretch! I pity him 
cried Adams. He did indeed deserve it, said the gentleman; 
for he loved his wife with great tenderness; and, I assure 
you, it is a great satisfaction to me that I was not the man 
who first seduced her affections from him. These apprehen¬ 
sions appeared also too well grounded, for in the end he dis¬ 
covered us, and procured witnesses of our caresses. He then 
prosecuted me at law, and recovered 3000/. damages, which 
much distressed my fortune to pay; and what was worse, his 
wife, being divorced, came upon my hands. I led a very un¬ 
easy life with her; for, besides that my passion was now much 
abated, her excessive jealousy was very troublesome. At 
length death delivered me from an inconvenience which the 
consideration of my having been the author of her misfor¬ 
tunes would never suffer me to take any other method of 
discarding. 

I now bade adieu to love, and resolved to pursue other less 
dangerous and expensive pleasures. I fell into the acquain¬ 
tance of a set of jolly companions, who slept all day and 
drank all night; fellows who might rather be said to consume 
time than to live. Their best conversation was nothing but 
noise: singing, hollowing, wrangling, drinking, toasting, 
sp—wing, smoking, were the chief ingredients of our enter¬ 
tainment. And yet, bad as these were, they were more tol¬ 
erable than our graver scenes, which were either excessive 
tedious narratives of dull common matters of fact, or hot 
disputes about trifling matters, which commonly ended in a 
wager. This way of life the first serious reflection put a 
period to; and I became member of a club frequented by 
young men of great abilities. The bottle was now only 
called in to the assistance of our conversation, which rolled 
on the deepest points of philosophy. These gentlemen were 
engaged in a search after truth, in the pursuit of which they 

188 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


threw aside all the prejudices of education, and governed 
themselves only by the infallible guide of human reason. 
This great guide, after having shown them the falsehood of 
that very antient but simple tenet, that there is such a being 
as a Deity in the universe, helped them to establish, in his stead 
a certain rule of right, by adhering to which they all arrived 
at the utmost purity of morals. Reflection made me as much 
delighted with this society as it had taught me to despise and 
detest the former. I began now to esteem myself a 
being of a higher order than I had ever before conceived; 
and was the more charmed with this rule of right, as I really 
found in my own nature nothing repugnant to it. I held in 
utter contempt all persons who wanted any other inducement 
to virtue besides her intrinsic beauty and excellence; and 
had so high an opinion of my present companions, with re¬ 
gard to their morality, that I would have trusted them with 
whatever was nearest and dearest to me. Whilst I was en¬ 
gaged in this delightful dream, two or three accidents hap¬ 
pened successively, which at first much surprized me;—for 
one of our greatest philosophers, or rule-of-right men, with¬ 
drew himself from us, taking with him the wife of one of 
his most intimate friends. Secondly, another of the same 
society left the club without remembering to take leave of 
his bail. A third, having borrowed a sum of money of me, 
for which I received no security, when I asked him to repay 
it, absolutely denied the loan. These several practices, so in¬ 
consistent with our golden rule, made me begin to suspect 
its infallibility; but when I communicated my thoughts to 
one of the club, he said, there was nothing absolutely good 
or evil in itself; that actions were denominated good or bad 
by the circumstances of the agent. That possibly the man 
who ran away with his neighbour’s wife might be one of 
very good inclinations, but over-prevailed on by the violence 
of an unruly passion; and, in other particulars, might be a 
very worthy member of society; that if the beauty of any 
woman created in him an uneasiness, he had a right from 
nature to relieve himself;—with many other things, which 
I then detested so much, that I took leave of the society that 
very evening and never returned to it again. Being now 

189 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


reduced to a state of solitude which I did not like, I became 
a great frequenter of the playhouses, which indeed was al¬ 
ways my favourite diversion; and most evenings passed 
away two or three hours behind the scenes, where I met with 
several poets, with whom I made engagements at the taverns. 
Some of the players were likewise of our parties. At these 
meetings we were generally entertained by the poets with 
reading their performances, and by the players with repeating 
their parts: upon which occasions, I observed the gentleman 
who furnished our entertainment was commonly the best 
pleased of the company; who, though they were pretty civil 
to him to his face, seldom failed to take the first opportunity 
of his absence to ridicule him. Now I made some remarks 
which probably are too obvious to be worth relating. “ Sir,” 
says Adams, “ your remarks if you please.” First then, says 
he, I concluded that the general observation, that wits are 
most inclined to vanity, is not true. Men are equally vain 
of riches, strength, beauty, honours, etc. But these appear 
of themselves to the eyes of the beholders, whereas the poor 
wit is obliged to produce his performance to show you his 
perfection; and on his readiness to do this that vulgar opinion 
1 have before mentioned is grounded; but doth not the per¬ 
son who expends vast sums in the furniture of his house or 
the ornaments of his person, who consumes much time and 
employs great pains in dressing himself, or who thinks him¬ 
self paid for self-denial, labour, or even villany, by a title or 
a ribbon, sacrifice as much to vanity as the poor wit who is 
desirous to read you his poem or his play? My second re¬ 
mark was, that vanity is the worst of passions, and more apt 
to contaminate the. mind than any other: for, as selfishness 
is much more general than we please to allow it, so it is 
natural to hate and envy those who stand between us and 
the good we desire. Now, in lust and ambition these are 
few; and even in avarice we find many who are no obstacles 
to our pursuits; but the vain man seeks pre-eminence; and 
everything which is excellent or praiseworthy in another ren¬ 
ders him the mark of his antipathy. Adams now began to 
fumble in his pockets, and soon cried out, “ O la! I have it 
not about me.” Upon this, the gentleman asking him 

190 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


what he was searching for, he said he searched aftei 
which he thought his masterpiece, against vanity, 
upon it, fie upon it! ” cries he, “ why do I ever lea\ 
sermon out of my pocket? I wish it was within five m. 

I would willingly fetch it, to read it you.” The gentleim 
answered that there was no need, for he was cured of the 
passion. “ And for that very reason,” quoth Adams, “ I 
would read it, for I am confident you would admire it: in¬ 
deed, I have never been a greater enemy to any passion than 
that silly one of vanity.” The gentleman smiled, and pro¬ 
ceeded—From this society I 'easily passed to that of the 
gamesters, where nothing remarkable happened but the 
finishing my fortune, which those gentlemen soon helped me 
to the end of. This opened scenes of life hitherto unknown; 
poverty and distress, with their horrid train of duns, attor¬ 
neys, bailiffs, haunted me day and night. My clothes grew 
shabby, my credit bad, my friends and acquaintance of all 
kinds cold. In this situation the strangest thought imaginable 
came into my head; and what was this but to write a play ? 
for I had sufficient leisure: fear of bailiffs confined me every 
day to my room: and, having always had a little inclination 
and something of a genius that way, I set myself to work, 
and within a few months produced a piece of five acts, which 
was accepted of at the theatre. I remembered to have for¬ 
merly taken tickets of other poets for their benefits, long be¬ 
fore the appearance of their performances; and, resolving 
to follow a precedent which was so well suited to my present 
circumstances, I immediately provided myself with a large 
number of little papers. Happy indeed would be the state of 
poetry, would these tickets pass current at the bakehouse, the 
ale-house, and the chandler’s-shop: but alas! far otherwise; 
no tailor will take them in payment for buckram, canvas, 
stay-tape; nor no bailiff for civility-money. They are, indeed, 
no more than a passport to beg with; a certificate that the 
owner wants five shillings, which induces well-disposed 
Christians to charity. I now experienced what is worse than 
poverty, or rather what is the worst consequence of poverty,— 
I mean attendance and dependence on the great. Many a 
morning have I waited hours in the cold parlours of men of 

i 9 i 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


v^here, after seeing the lowest rascals in lace and 
.ery, the pimps and buffoons in fashion, admitted, I 
oeen sometimes told, on sending in my name, that my 
a could not possibly see me this morning: a sufficient as- 
arance that I should never more get entrance into that house. 
Sometimes I have been at last admitted; and the great man 
hath thought proper to excuse himself, by telling me he was 
tied up. “ Tied up,” says Adams, “ pray what’s that? ” Sir, 
says the gentleman, the profit which booksellers allowed 
authors for the best works was so very small, that certain 
men of birth and fortune some years ago, who were the pa¬ 
trons of wit and learning, thought fit to encourage them far¬ 
ther by entering into voluntary subscriptions for their en¬ 
couragement. Thus Prior, Rowe, Pope, and some other men 
of genius, received large sums for their labours from the pub¬ 
lic. This seemed so easy a method of getting money, that 
many of the lowest scribblers of the times ventured to pub¬ 
lish their works in the same way; and many had the assurance 
to take in subscriptions for what was not writ, nor ever in¬ 
tended. Subscriptions in this manner growing infinite, and 
a kind of tax on the public, some persons, finding it not so 
easy a task to discern good from bad authors, or to know what 
genius was worthy encouragement and what was not, to pre¬ 
vent the expense of subscribing to so many, invented a method 
to excuse themselves from all subscriptions whatever; and 
this was to receive a small sum of money in consideration of 
giving a large one if ever they subscribed; which many have 
done, and many more have pretended to have done, in order to 
silence all solicitation. The same method was likewise taken 
with playhouse tickets, which were no less a public griev¬ 
ance; and this is what they call being tied up from sub¬ 
scribing. “ I can’t say but the term is apt enough, and some¬ 
what typical,” said Adams; “ for a man of large fortune, who 
ties himself up, as you call it, from the encouragement of 
men of merit, ought to be tied up in reality.” Well, sir, says 
the gentleman, to return to my story. Sometimes I have 
received a guinea from a man of quality, given with as 
ill a grace as alms are generally to the meanest beggar; and 
purchased too with as much time spent in attendance as, if 

192 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

it had been spent in honest industry, might have brought 
me more profit with infinitely more satisfaction. After about 
two months spent in this disagreeable way, with the ut¬ 
most mortification, when I was pluming my hopes on the 
prospect of a plentiful harvest from my play, upon applying 
to the prompter to know when it came into rehearsal, he in¬ 
formed me he had received orders from the managers to 
return me the play again, for that they could not possibly 
act it that season; but, if I would take it and revise it 
against the next, they-would be glad to see it again. I 
snatched it from him with great indignation, and retired to 
my room, where I threw myself on the bed in a fit of despair. 
“ You should rather have thrown yourself on your knees/’ 
says Adams, “ for despair is sinful.” As soon, continued 
the gentleman, as I had indulged the first tumult of my 
passion, I began to consider coolly what course I should 
take, in a situation without friends, money, credit, or repu¬ 
tation of any kind. After revolving many things in my 
mind, I could see no other possibility of furnishing myself 
with the miserable necessaries of life than to retire to a garret 
near the Temple, and commence hackney-writer to the law¬ 
yers, for which I was well qualified, being an excellent pen¬ 
man. This purpose I resolved on, and immediately put it 
in execution. I had an acquaintance with an attorney who 
had formerly transacted affairs for me, and to him I applied; 
but, instead of furnishing me with any business, he laughed 
at my undertaking, and told me, he was afraid I should turn 
his deeds into plays, and he should expect to see them on 
the stage. Not to tire you with instances of this kind from 
others, I found that Plato himself did not hold poets in 
greater abhorrence than these men of business do. When¬ 
ever I durst venture to a coffee-house, which was on Sundays 
only, a whisper ran round the room, which was constantly 
attended with a sneer—That’s poet Wilson; for I know not 
whether you have observed it, but there is a malignity in the 
nature of man, which, when not weeded out, or at least cov¬ 
ered by a good education and politeness, delights in making 
another uneasy or dissatisfied with himself. This abun¬ 
dantly appears in all assemblies, except those which are filled 
13 193 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


by people of fashion, and especially among the younger peo¬ 
ple of both sexes whose birth and fortunes place them just 
without the polite circles; I mean the lower class of the 
gentry, and the higher of the mercantile world, who are, in 
reality, the worst-bred part of mankind. Well, sir, whilst I 
continued in this miserable state, with scarce sufficient busi¬ 
ness to keep me from starving, the reputation of a poet being 
my bane, I accidentally became acquainted with a bookseller, 
who told me, it was pity a man of my learning and genius 
should be obliged to such a method of getting his livelihood; 
that he had a compassion for me, and, if I would engage with 
him, he would undertake to provide handsomely for me. A 
man in my circumstances, as he very well knew, had no 
choice. I accordingly accepted his proposal with his condi¬ 
tions, which were none of the most favourable, and fell to 
translating with all my might. I had no longer reason to 
lament the want of business; for he furnished me with so 
much, that in half a year I almost writ myself blind. I like¬ 
wise contracted a distemper by my sedentary life, in which 
no part of my body was exercised but my right arm, which 
rendered me incapable of writing for a long time. This un¬ 
luckily happening to delay the publication of a work, 
and my last performance not having sold well, the bookseller 
declined any further engagement, and aspersed me to his 
brethren as a careless idle fellow. I had, however, by hav¬ 
ing half worked and half starved myself to death during the 
time I was in his service, saved a few guineas, with which I 
bought a lottery-ticket, resolving to throw myself into For¬ 
tune’s lap, and try if she would make me amends for the in¬ 
juries she had done me at the gaming-table. This pur¬ 
chase, being made, left me almost pennyless; when, as if I 
had not been sufficiently miserable, a bailiff in woman’s 
clothes got admittance to my chamber, whither he was di¬ 
rected by the bookseller. He arrested me at my tailor’s suit 
for thirty-five pounds; a sum for which I could not pro¬ 
cure bail; and was therefore conveyed to his house, where 
I was locked up in an upper chamber. I had now neither 
health (for I was scarce recovered from my indisposition), 
liberty, money, or friends; and had abandoned all hopes, 

194 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

and even the desire, of life. “ But this could not last long,” 
said Adams; “ for doubtless the tailor released you the mo¬ 
ment he was truly acquainted with your affairs, and knew 
that your circumstances would not permit you to pay him.” 
“ Oh, sir,” answered the gentleman, “ he knew that before he 
arrested me; nay, he knew that nothing but incapacity could 
prevent me paying my debts; for I had been his cus¬ 
tomer many years, had spent vast sums of money with him, 
and had always paid most punctually in my prosperous days; 
but when I reminded him of this, with assurances that, if 
he would not molest my endeavours, I would pay him all 
the money I could by my utmost labour and industry pro¬ 
cure, reserving only what was sufficient to preserve me alive, 
he answered, his patience was worn out; that I had put him 
off from time to time; that he wanted the money; that he 
had put it into a lawyer’s hands; and if I did not pay him 
immediately, or find security, I must lie in gaol and expect 
no mercy.” “ He may expect mercy,” cries Adams, starting 
from his chair, “ where he will find none! How can such a 
wretch repeat the Lord’s prayer; where the word, which is 
translated, I know not for what reason, trespasses, is in the 
original, debts? And as surely as we do not forgive others 
their debts, when they are unable to pay them, so surely 
shall we ourselves be unforgiven when we are in no condition 
of paying.” He ceased, and the gentleman proceeded. While 
I was in this deplorable situation, a former acquaintance, to 
whom I had communicated my lottery-ticket, found me out, 
and, making me a visit, with great delight in his counte¬ 
nance, shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me joy of 
my good fortune: for, says he, your ticket is come up a prize 
of 3000/. Adams snapped his fingers at these words in an 
ecstasy of joy; which, however, did not continue long; for 
the gentleman thus proceeded:—Alas! sir, this was only a 
trick of Fortune to sink me the deeper; for I had disposed of 
this lottery-ticket two days before to a relation, who refused 
lending me a shilling without it, in order to procure myself 
bread. As soon as my friend was acquainted with my un¬ 
fortunate sale he began to revile me and remind me of all the 
ill-conduct and miscarriages of my life. He said I was one 

*95 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


whom Fortune could not save if she would; that I was now 
ruined without any hopes of retrieval, nor must expect any 
pity from my friends; that it would be extreme weakness to 
compassionate the misfortunes of a man who ran headlong to 
his own destruction. He then painted to me, in as lively 
colours as he was able, the happiness I should have now en¬ 
joyed, had I not foolishly disposed of my ticket. I urged 
the plea of necessity; but he made no answer to that, and 
began again to revile me, till I could bear it no longer, and 
desired him to finish his visit. I soon 'exchanged the bailiff’s 
house for a prison; where, as I had not money sufficient to 
procure me a separate apartment, I was crowded in with a 
great number of miserable wretches, in common with whom 
I was destitute of every convenience of life, even that which 
all the brutes enjoy, wholesome air. In these dreadful cir¬ 
cumstances I applied by letter to several of my old acquain¬ 
tance, and such to whom I had formerly lent money without 
any great prospect of its being returned, for their assistance ; 
but in vain. An excuse, instead of a denial, was the gentlest 
answer I received. Whilst I languished in a condition too 
horrible to be described, and which, in a land of humanity, 
and, what is much more, Christianity, seems a strange pun¬ 
ishment for a little inadvertency and indiscretion; whilst I 
was in this condition, a fellow came into the prison, and, in¬ 
quiring me out, delivered me the following letter:— 

“ Sir, —My father, to whom you sold your ticket in the last 
lottery, died the same day in which it came up a prize, as 
you have possibly heard, and left me sole heiress of all his 
fortune. I am so much touched with your present circum¬ 
stances, and the uneasiness you must feel at having been 
driven to dispose of what might have made you happy, that 
I must desire your acceptance of the enclosed, and am your 
humble servant, 

“ Harriet Hearty.” 

And what do you think was enclosed? “I don’t know,” 
cried Adams; “ not less than a guinea, I hope.” Sir, it was 
a bank-note for 200/.—“200/.?” says Adams, in a rapture. 

196 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

No less, I assure you, answered the gentleman; a sum I was 
not half so delighted with as with the dear name of the 
generous girl that sent it me; and who was not only the 
best but the handsomest creature in the universe, and for 
whom I had long had a passion which I never durst disclose 
to her. I kissed her name a thousand times, my eyes over¬ 
flowing with tenderness and gratitude; I repeated—But not 
to detain you with these raptures, I immediately acquired 
my liberty; and, having paid all my debts, departed, with up¬ 
wards of fifty pounds in my pocket, to thank my kind deliv¬ 
erer. She happened to be then out of town, a circumstance 
which, upon reflection, pleased me; for by that means I had 
an opportunity to appear before her in a more decent dress. 
At her return to town, within a day or two, I threw myself 
at her feet with the most ardent acknowledgments, which 
she rejected with an unfeigned greatness of mind, and told 
me I could not oblige her more than by never mentioning, 
or if possible thinking on, a circumstance which must bring 
to my mind an accident that might be grievous to me to think 
on. She proceeded thus: “ What I have done is in my own 
eyes a trifle, and perhaps infinitely less than would have be¬ 
come me to do. And if you think of engaging in any business 
where a larger sum may be serviceable to you, I shall not be 
over-rigid either as to the security or interest.” I endea¬ 
voured to express all the gratitude in my power to this pro¬ 
fusion of goodness, though perhaps it was my enemy, and 
began to afflict my mind with more agonies than all the mis¬ 
eries I had underwent; it affected me with severer reflections 
than poverty, distress, and prisons united had been able to 
make me feel; for, sir, these acts and professions of kind¬ 
ness, which were sufficient to have raised in a good heart 
the most violent passion of friendship to one of the same, or to 
age and ugliness in a different sex, came to me from a woman, 
a young and beautiful woman; one whose perfections I had 
long known, and for whom I had long conceived a violent 
passion, though with a despair which made me endeavour 
rather to curb and conceal, than to nourish or acquaint her 
with it. In short, they came upon me united with beauty, 
softness, and tenderness: such bewitching smiles!—O Mr 
Adams, in that moment I lost myself, and, forgetting our 

T 97 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


different situations, nor considering what return I was mak¬ 
ing to her goodness by desiring her, who had given me so 
much, to bestow her all, I laid gently hold on her hand, and, 
conveying it to my lips, I prest it with inconceivable ardour; 
then, lifting up my swimming eyes, I saw her face and neck 
overspread with one blush: she offered to withdraw her hand, 
yet not so as to deliver it from mine, though I held it with 
the gentlest force. We both stood trembling; her eyes cast 
on the ground, and mine stedfastly fixed on her. Good God, 
what was then the condition of my soul! burning with love, 
desire, admiration, gratitude, and every tender passion, all 
bent on one charming object. Passion at last got the better 
of both reason and respect, and, softly letting go her hand, 
I offered madly to clasp her in my arms; when, a little re¬ 
covering herself, she started from me, asking me, with some 
show of anger, if she had any reason to expect this treatment 
from me. I then fell prostrate before her, and told her, if 
I had offended, my life was absolutely in her power, which 
I would in any manner lose for her sake. Nay, madam, said 
I, you shall not be so ready to punish me as I to suffer. I own 
my guilt. I detest the reflection that I would have sacrificed 
your happiness to mine. Believe me, I sincerely repent my 
ingratitude; yet, believe me too, it was my passion, my un¬ 
bounded passion for you, which hurried me so far: I have 
loved you long and tenderly, and the goodness you have shown 
me hath innocently weighed down a wretch undone before. 
Acquit me of all mean, mercenary views; and, before I take 
my leave of you for ever, which I am resolved instantly to do, 
believe me that Fortune could have raised me to no height 
to which I could not have gladly lifted you. O, curst be 
Fortune!—“Do not,” says she, interrupting me with the 
sweetest voice, “ do not curse Fortune, since she hath made 
me happy; and, if she hath put your happiness in my 
power, I have told you you shall ask nothing in reason which 
I will refuse.” Madam, said I, you mistake me if you im¬ 
agine, as you seem, my happiness is in the power of Fortune 
now. You have obliged me too much already; if I have any 
wish, it is for some blest accident, by which I may contribute 
with my life to the least augmentation of your felicity. As 
for myself, the only happiness I can ever have will be hear- 

198 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


ing of yours; and if Fortune will make that complete, I will 
forgive her all her wrongs to me. “ You may, indeed,” an¬ 
swered she, smiling, “ for your own happiness must be in¬ 
cluded in mine. I have long known your worth; nay, I must 
confess,” said she, blushing, “ I have long discovered that 
passion for me you profess, notwithstanding those endeavours, 
which I am convinced were unaffected, to conceal it; and if 
all I can give with reason will not suffice, take reason away; 

and now I believe you cannot ask me what I will deny.”- 

She uttered these words with a sweetness not to be imagined. 
I immediately started; my blood, which lay freezing at my 
heart, rushed tumultuously through every vein. I stood for 
a moment silent; then, flying to her, I caught her in my arms, 
no longer resisting, and softly told her she must give me then 
herself. O, sir! can I describe her look ? She remained 
silent, and almost motionless, several minutes. At last, re¬ 
covering herself a little, she insisted on my leaving her, and 
in such a manner that I instantly obeyed: you may imagine, 
however, I soon saw her again.—But I ask pardon: I fear 
I have detained you too long in relating the particulars of the 
former interview. “ So far otherwise,” said Adams, licking 
his lips, “that I could willingly hear it over again.” Well, 
sir, continued the gentleman, to be as concise as possible, 
within a week she consented to make me the happiest of man¬ 
kind. We were married shortly after; and when I came to 
examine the circumstances of my wife’s fortune (which, I 
do assure you, I was not presently at leisure enough to do), 
I found it amounted to about six thousand pounds, most part 
of which lay in effects; for her father had been a wine mer¬ 
chant, and she seemed willing, if I liked it, that I should carry 
on the same trade. I readily, and too inconsiderately, un¬ 
dertook it; for, not having been bred up to the secrets of the 
business, and endeavouring to deal with the utmost honesty 
and uprightness, I soon found our fortune in a declining way, 
and my trade decreasing by little and little; for my wines, 
which I never adulterated after their importation, and were 
sold as neat as they came over, were universally decried by 
the vintners, to whom I could not allow them quite as cheap 
as those who gained double the profit by a less price. I soon 
began to despair of improving our fortune by these means; 

199 



THE ADVENTURES OF 




nor was I at all easy at the visits and familiarity of many who 
had been my acquaintance in my prosperity, but had denied 
and shunned me in my adversity, and now very forwardly 
renewed their acquaintance with me. In short, I had suffi¬ 
ciently seen that the pleasures of the world are chiefly folly, 
and the business of it mostly knavery, and both nothing better 
than vanity; the men of pleasure tearing one another to pieces 
from the emulation of spending money, and the men of busi¬ 
ness from envy in getting it. My happiness consisted en¬ 
tirely in my wife, whom I loved with an inexpressible fond¬ 
ness, which was perfectly returned; and my prospects were 
no other than to provide for our growing family; for she was 
now big of her second child: I therefore took an opportunity 
to ask her opinion of entering into a retired life, which, after 
hearing my reasons and perceiving my affection for it, she 
readily embraced. We soon put our small fortune, now re¬ 
duced under three thousand pounds, into money, with part 
of which we purchased this little place, whither we retired 
soon after her delivery, from a world full of bustle, noise, 
hatred, envy, and ingratitude, to ease, quiet, and love. We 
have here lived almost twenty years, with little other conver¬ 
sation than our own, most of the neighbourhood taking us for 
very strange people; the squire of the parish representing me 
as a madman, and the parson as a presbyterian, because I 
will not hunt with the one nor drink with the other. “ Sir,” 
says Adams, “ Fortune hath, I think, paid you all her debts 
in this sweet retirement.” Sir, replied the gentleman, I am 
thankful to the great Author of all things for the blessings I 
here enjoy. I have the best of wives, and three pretty chil¬ 
dren, for whom I have the true tenderness of a parent. But 
no blessings are pure in this world: within three years of 
my arrival here I lost my eldest son. (Here he sighed bit¬ 
terly.) “ Sir,” says Adams, “ we must submit to Providence, 
and consider death as common to all.” We must submit, in¬ 
deed, answered the gentleman; and if he had died I could 
have borne the loss with patience; but alas! sir, he was stolen 
away from my door by some wicked travelling people whom 
they call gipsies; nor could I ever, with the most diligent 
search, recover him. Poor child! he had the sweetest look— 
the exact picture of his mother; at which some tears unwit- 


200 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


tingly dropt from his eyes, as did likewise from those of 
Adams, who always sympathized with his friends on those oc¬ 
casions. Thus, sir, said the gentleman, I have finished my 
story, in which if I have been too particular, I ask your par¬ 
don ; and now, if you please, I will fetch you another bottle: 
which proposal the parson thankfully accepted. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A DESCRIPTION OF MR WILSON’S WAY OF LIVING. THE TRA¬ 
GICAL ADVENTURE OF THE DOG, AND OTHER GRAVE MATTERS. 

T HE gentleman returned with the bottle; and Adams and 
he sat some time silent, when the former started up, 
and cried, “ No, that won’t do.” The gentleman inquired into 
his meaning; he answered, he had been considering that it 
was possible the late famous king Theodore might have been 
that very son whom he had lost; but added, that his age 
could not answer that imagination. However, says he, “ God 
disposes all things for the best; and very probably he may 
be some great man, or duke, and may, one day or other, 
revisit you in that capacity.” The gentleman answered, he 
should know him amongst ten thousand, for he had a mark 
on his left breast of a strawberry, which his mother had given 
him by longing for that fruit. 

That beautiful young lady the Morning now rose from her 
bed, and with a countenance blooming with fresh youth and 
sprightliness, like Miss —*, with soft dews hanging on her 
pouting lips, began to take her early walk over the eastern 
hills; and presently after, that gallant person the Sun stole 
softly from his wife’s chamber to pay his addresses to her; 
when the gentleman asked his guest if he would walk forth 
and survey his little garden; which he readily agreed to; and 
Joseph, at the same time awaking from a sleep in which he 
had been two hours buried, went with them. No parterres, 
no fountains, no statues, embellished this little garden. Its 
only ornament was a short walk, shaded on each side by a 
* Whoever the reader pleases. 


201 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


filbert-hedge, with a small alcove at one end, whither in hot 
weather the gentleman and his wife used to retire and divert 
themselves with their children, who played in the walk be¬ 
fore them. But, though vanity had no votary in this little 
spot, here was variety of fruit and everything useful for the 
kitchen, which was abundantly sufficient to catch the admira¬ 
tion of Adams, who told the gentleman he had certainly a 
good gardener. Sir, answered he, that gardener is now before 
you: whatever you see here is the work solely of my own 
hands. Whilst I am providing necessaries for my table, I 
likewise procure myself an appetite for them. In fair seasons 
I seldom pass less than six hours of the twenty-four in this 
place, where I am not idle; and by these means I have been 
able to preserve my health ever since my arrival here, with¬ 
out assistance from physic. Hither I generally repair at the 
dawn, and exercise myself whilst my wife dresses her children 
and prepares our breakfast; after which we are seldom asun¬ 
der during the residue of the day, for, when the weather will 
not permit them to accompany me here, I am usually within 
with them; for I am neither ashamed of conversing with my 
wife nor of playing with my children: to say the truth, I do 
not perceive that inferiority of understanding which the levity 
of rakes, the dullness of men of business, or the austerity of the 
learned, would persuade us of in women. As for my woman, 
I declare I have found none of my own sex capable of making 
juster observations on life, or of delivering them more agree¬ 
ably; nor do I believe any one possessed of a faithfuller or 
braver friend. And sure as this friendship is sweetened with 
more delicacy and tenderness, so is it confirmed by dearer 
pledges than can attend the closest male alliance; for what 
union can be so fast as our common interests in the fruits 
of our embraces ? Perhaps, sir, you are not yourself a father; 
if you are not, be assured you cannot conceive the delight 
I have in my little ones. Would you not despise me if you 
saw me stretched on the ground, and my children playing 
round me? “I should reverence the sight,” quoth Adams; 
“ I myself am now the father of six, and have been of eleven, 
and I can say I never scourged a child of my own, unless as 
his schoolmaster, and then have felt every stroke on my own 
posteriors. And as to what you say concerning women, I 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


have often lamented my own wife did not understand Greek” 
The gentleman smiled, and answered, he would not be appre¬ 
hended to insinuate that his own had an understanding above 
the care of her family; on the contrary, says he, my Harriet, 
I assure you, is a notable housewife, and the housekeepers 
of few gentlemen understand cookery or confectionery better; 
but these are arts which she hath no great occasion for now: 
however, the wine you commended so much last night at 
supper was of her own making, as is indeed all the liquor 
in my house, except my beer, which falls to my province. 
“ And I assure you it is as excellent,” quoth Adams, “ as ever 
I tasted.” We formerly kept a maid-servant, but since my 
girls have been growing up she is unwilling to indulge them 
in idleness; for as the fortunes I shall give them will be very 
small, we intend not to breed them above the rank they are 
likely to fill hereafter, nor to teach them to despise or ruin 
a plain husband. Indeed, I could wish a man of my own 
temper, and a retired life, might fall to their lot ; for I have 
experienced that calm serene happiness, which is seated in 
content, is inconsistent with the hurry and bustle of the world. 
He was proceeding thus when the little things, being just 
risen, ran eagerly towards him and asked him blessing. They 
were shy to the strangers, but the eldest acquainted her father, 
that her mother and the young gentlewoman were up, and 
that breakfast was ready. They all went in, where the gentle¬ 
man was surprized at the beauty of Fanny, who had now re¬ 
covered herself from her fatigue, and was entirely clean drest; 
for the rogues who had taken away her purse had left her her 
bundle. But if he was so much amazed at the beauty of this 
young creature, his guests were no less charmed at the ten¬ 
derness which appeared in the behaviour of the husband and 
wife to each other, and to their children, and at the dutiful 
and affectionate behaviour of these to their parents. These 
instances pleased the well-disposed mind of Adams equally 
with the readiness which they exprest to oblige their guests, 
and their forwardness to offer them the best of everything 
in their house; and what delighted him still more was an 
instance or two of their charity; for whilst they were at break¬ 
fast the good woman was called for to assist her sick neigh¬ 
bour, which she did with some cordials made for the public 

203 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


use, and the good man went into his garden at the same time 
to supply another with something which he wanted thence, 
for they had nothing which those who wanted it were not 
welcome to. These good people were in the utmost cheer¬ 
fulness, when they heard the report of a gun, and immediately 
afterwards a little dog, the favourite of the eldest daughter, 
came limping in all bloody and laid himself at his mistress’s 
feet: the poor girl, who was about eleven years old, burst 
into tears at the sight; and presently one of the neighbours 
came in and informed them that the young squire, the son of 
the lord of the manor, had shot him as he passed by, swearing 
at the same time he would prosecute the master of him for 
keeping a spaniel, for that he had given notice he would not 
suffer one in the parish. The dog, whom his mistress had 
taken into her lap, died in a few minutes, licking her hand. 
She exprest great agony at her loss, and the other children 
began to cry for their sister’s misfortune; nor could Fanny 
herself refrain. Whilst the father and mother attempted to 
comfort her, Adams grasped his crabstick and would have 
sallied out after the squire had not Joseph withheld him. He 
could not however bridle his tongue—he pronounced the 
word rascal with great emphasis; said he deserved to be 
hanged more than a highwayman, and wished he had the 
scourging him. The mother took her child, lamenting and 
carrying the dead favourite in her arms, out of the room, 
when the gentleman said this was the second time this squire 
had endeavoured to kill the little wretch, and had wounded 
him smartly once before; adding, he could have no motive 
but ill-nature, for the little thing, which was not near as big 
as one’s fist, had never been twenty yards from the house in 
the six years his daughter had had it. He said he had done 
nothing to deserve this usage, but his father had too great 
a fortune to contend with: that he was as absolute as any 
tyrant in the universe, and had killed all the dogs and taken 
away all the guns in the neighbourhood; and not only that, 
but he trampled down hedges and rode over corn and gardens, 
with no more regard than if they were the highway. “ I 
wish I could catch him in my garden,” said Adams, “ though 
I would rather forgive him riding through my house than 
such an ill-natured act as this.” 


204 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


The cheerfulness of their conversation being interrupted 
by this accident, in which the guests could be of no service 
to their kind entertainer; and as the mother was taken up in 
administering consolation to the poor girl, whose disposition 
was too good hastily to forget the sudden loss of her little fa¬ 
vourite, which had been fondling with her a few minutes 
before; and as Joseph and Fanny were impatient to get home 
and begin those previous ceremonies to their happiness which 
Adams had insisted on, they now offered to take their leave. 
The gentleman importuned them much to stay dinner; but 
when he found their eagerness to depart he summond his 
wife; and accordingly, having performed all the usual cere¬ 
monies of bows and curtsies more pleasant to be seen than to 
be related, they took their leave, the gentleman and his wife 
heartily wishing them a good journey, and they as heartily 
thanking them for their kind entertainment. They then de¬ 
parted, Adams declaring that this was the manner in which 
the people had lived in the golden age. 


CHAPTER V. 

A DISPUTATION ON SCHOOLS HELD ON THE ROAD BY MR ABRA¬ 
HAM ADAMS AND JOSEPH; AND A DISCOVERY NOT UNWEL¬ 
COME TO THEM BOTH. 

O UR travellers, having well refreshed themselves at the 
gentleman’s house, Joseph and Fanny with sleep, and 
Mr Abraham Adams with ale and tobacco, renewed their jour¬ 
ney with great alacrity; and, pursuing the road into which 
they were directed, travelled many miles before they met with 
any adventure worth relating. In this interval we shall pre¬ 
sent our readers with a very curious discourse, as we appre¬ 
hend it, concerning public schools, which passed between Mr 
Joseph Andrews and Mr Abraham Adams. 

They had not gone far before Adams, calling to Joseph, 
asked him, if he had attended to the gentleman’s story? he 
answered, to all the former part. “And don’t you think,” 
says he, “ he was a very unhappy man in his youth ? ”—“ A 

205 





THE ADVENTURES OF 

very unhappy man, indeed/' answered the other. “ Joseph/' 
cries Adams, screwing up* his mouth, “ I have found it; I 
have discovered the cause of all the misfortunes which befel 
him: a public school, Joseph, was the cause of all the calam¬ 
ities which he afterwards suffered. Public schools are the 
nurseries of all vice and immorality. All the wicked fellows 
whom I remember at the university were bred at them.— 
Ah, Lord! I can remember as well as if it was but yesterday, 
a knot of them; they called them King’s scholars, I forget 

why-very wicked fellows! Joseph, you may thank the 

Lord you were not bred at a public school; you would never 
have preserved your virtue as you have. The first care I 
always take is of a boy’s morals; I had rather he should be 
a blockhead than an atheist or a presbyterian. What is all 
the learning in the world compared to his immortal soul? 
What shall a man take in exchange for his soul? But the 
masters of great schools trouble themselves about no such 
thing. I have known a lad of eighteen at the university, who 
hath not been able to say his catechism; but for my own part, 
I always scourged a lad sooner for missing that than any 
other lesson. Believe me, child, all that gentleman’s mis¬ 
fortunes arose from his being educated at a public school.” 

“ It doth not become me,” answered Joseph, “ to dispute 
anything, sir, with you, especially a matter of this kind; for 
to be sure you must be allowed by all the world to be the 
best teacher of a school in all our county.” “ Yes, that,” says 
Adams, “ I believe, is granted me; that I may without much 
vanity pretend to—nay, I believe I may go to the next 
county too—but gloriari non est meum ”—“ However, sir, 
as you are pleased to bid me speak,” says Joseph, “ you 
know my late master, Sir Thomas Booby, was bred at a 
public school, and he was the finest gentleman in all the 
neighbourhood. And I have often heard him say, if he had a 
hundred boys he would breed them all at the same place. It 
was of his opinion, and I have often heard him deliver it, that 
a boy taken from a public school and carried into the world, 
will learn more in one year there than one of a private educa¬ 
tion will in five. He used to say the school itself initiated 
him a great way (I remember that was his very expression), 
for great schools are little societies, where a boy of any ob- 

206 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


servation may see in epitome what he will afterwards find in 
the world at large.”—“ Hinc ilia lachryma: for that very rea¬ 
son,” quoth Adams, “ I prefer a private school, where boys 
may be kept in innocence and ignorance: for, according to 
that fine passage in the play of Cato, the only English tragedy 
I ever read, 

“ If knowledge of the world must make men villains, 

May Juba ever live in ignorance! ” 

Who would not rather preserve the purity of his child than 
wish him to attain the whole circle of arts and sciences? 
which, by the bye, he may learn in the classes of a private 
school; for I would not be vain, but I esteem myself to be 
second to none, nulli secundum, in teaching these things; so 
that a lad may have as much learning in a private as in a pub¬ 
lic education.”—“ And, with submission,” answered Joseph, 
“ he may get as much vice: witness several country gentle¬ 
men, who were educated within five miles of their own houses, 
and are as wicked as if they had known the world from their 
infancy. I remember when I was in the stable, if a young 
horse was vicious in his nature, no correction would make 
him otherwise: I take it to be equally the same among men: 
if a boy be of a mischievous wicked inclination, no school, 
though ever so private, will ever make him good: on the 
contrary, if he be of a righteous temper, you may trust him to 
London, or wherever else you please—he will be in no danger 
of being corrupted. Besides, I have often heard my master 
say that the discipline practised in public schools w T as much 
better than that in private.”—“ You talk like a jackanapes,” 
says Adams, “ and so did your master. Discipline indeed! 
because one man scourges twenty or thirty boys more in a 
morning than another, is he therefore a better disciplinarian ? 
I do presume to confer in this point with all who have taught 
from Chiron’s time to this day; and, if I was master of six 
boys only, I would preserve as good discipline amongst them 
as the master of the greatest school in the world. I say no¬ 
thing, young man; remember I say nothing; but if Sir Thomas 
himself had been educated nearer home, and under the tuition 
of somebody—remember, I name nobody—it might have been 

207 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


better for him:—but his father must institute him in the 
knowledge of the world. Nemo mortalium omnibus horis 
sapit .” Joseph, seeing him run on in this manner, asked par¬ 
don many times, assuring him he had no intention to offend. 
“ I believe you had not, child,” said he, “ and I am not angry 
with you: but for maintaining good discipline in a school; for 
this.”—And then he ran on as before, named all the masters 
who are recorded in old books, and preferred himself to them 
all. Indeed, if this good man had an enthusiasm, or what the 
vulgar call a blind side, it was this: he thought a schoolmaster 
the greatest character in the world, and himself the greatest 
of all schoolmasters: neither of which points he would have 
given up to Alexander the Great at the head of his army. 

Adams continued his subject till they came to one of the 
beautifullest spots of ground in the universe. It was a kind 
of natural amphitheatre formed by the winding of a small 
rivulet, which was planted with thick woods; and the trees 
rose gradually above each other, by the natural ascent of the 
ground they stood on; which ascent as they hid with their 
boughs, they seemed to have been disposed by the design of 
the most skilful planter. The soil was spread with a verdure 
which no paint could imitate: and the whole place might 
have raised romantic ideas in elder minds than those of Jo¬ 
seph and Fanny, without the assistance of love. 

Here they arrived about noon, and Joseph proposed to 
Adams that they should rest awhile in this delightful place, 
and refresh themselves with some provisions which the good¬ 
nature of Mrs Wilson had provided them with. Adams made 
no objection to the proposal; so down they sat, and, pulling 
out a cold fowl and a bottle of wine, they made a repast with 
a cheerfulness which might have attracted the envy of more 
splendid tables. I should not omit that they found among 
their provision a little paper containing a piece of gold, which 
Adams imagining had been put there by mistake, would have 
returned back. to restore it; but he was at last convinced by 
Joseph that Mr Wilson had taken this handsome way of 
furnishing them with a supply for their journey, on his having 
related the distress which they had been in, when they were 
relieved by the generosity of the pedlar. Adams said he was 
glad to see such an instance of goodness, not so much for 

208 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


the conveniency which it brought them as for the sake of the 
doer, whose reward would be great in heaven. He likewise 
comforted himself with a reflection that he should shortly 
have an opportunity of returning it him; for the gentleman 
was within a week to make a journey into Somersetshire, to 
pass through Adam’s parish, and had faithfully promised 
to call on him; a circumstance which we thought too imma¬ 
terial to mention before; but which those who have as great 
an affection for that gentleman as ourselves will rejoice at, 
as it may give them hopes of seeing him again. Then Joseph 
made a speech on charity, which the reader, if he is so dis¬ 
posed, may see in the next chapter; for we scorn to betray 
him into any such reading without first giving him warning. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MORAL REFLECTIONS BY JOSEPH ANDREWS; WITH THE HUNT¬ 
ING ADVENTURE, AND PARSON ADAMS’S MIRACULOUS ESCAPE. 

a T HAVE often wondered, sir,” said Joseph, “ to observe so 
1 few instances of charity among mankind; for though the 
goodness of a man’s heart did not incline him to relieve the 
distresses of his fellow-creatures, methinks the desire of hon¬ 
our should move him to it. What inspires a man to build fine 
houses, to purchase fine furniture, pictures, clothes, and other 
things, at a great expense, but an ambition to be respected 
more than other people? Now, would not one great act of 
charity, one instance of redeeming a poor family from all 
the miseries of poverty, restoring an unfortunate tradesman 
by a sum of money to the means of procuring a livelihood 
by his industry, discharging an undone debtor from his debts 
or a gaol, or any such-like example of goodness, create a 
. man more honour and respect than he could acquire by the 
finest house, furniture, pictures, or clothes, that were ever 
beheld? for not only the object himself who was thus relieved, 
but all who heard the name of such a person, must, I imagine, 
reverence him infinitely more than the possessor of all those 
other things; which, when we so admire, we rather praise the 

H 200 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


builder, the workman, the painter, the lace-maker, the tailor, 
and the rest, by whose ingenuity they are produced, than the 
person who by his money makes them his own. For my own 
part, when I have waited behind my lady in a room hung 
with fine pictures, while I have been looking at them I 
have never once thought of their owner, nor hath any one 
else, as I ever observed; for when it hath been asked whose 
picture that was, it was never once answered the master’s of 
the house; but Ammyconni, Paul Varnish, Hannibal Scratchi, 
or Hogarthi, which I suppose were the names of the painters; 
but if it was asked—Who redeemed such a one out of prison ? 
Who lent such a ruined tradesman money to set up? Who 
clothed that family of poor small children? it is very plain 
what must be the answer. And besides, these great folks are 
mistaken if they imagine they get any honour at all by these 
means; for I do not remember I ever was with my lady at 
any house where she commended the house or furniture but 
I have heard her at her return home make sport and jeer 
at whatever she had before commended; and I have been told 
by other gentlemen in livery that it is the same in their fam¬ 
ilies : but I defy the wisest man in the world to turn a true 
good action into ridicule. I defy him to do it. He who should 
endeavour it would be laughed at himself, instead of making 
others laugh. Nobody scarce doth any good, yet they all 
agree in praising those who do. Indeed, it is strange that all 
men should consent in commending goodness, and no man 
endeavour to deserve that commendation; whilst, on the con¬ 
trary, all rail at wickedness, and all are as eager to be what 
they abuse. This I know not the reason of; but it is as plain as 
daylight to those who converse in the world, as I have done 
these three years.” “ Are all the great folks wicked then ? ” 
says Fanny. “ To be sure there are some exceptions,” an¬ 
swered Joseph. “ Some gentlemen of our cloth report char¬ 
itable actions done by their lords and masters; and I have 
heard Squire Pope, the great poet, at my lady’s table, tell 
stories of a man that lived at a place called Ross, and an¬ 
other at the Bath, one A 1 —A 1 —I forget his name, but it is 
in the book of verses. This gentleman hath built up a stately 
house too, which the squire likes very well; but his charity 
is seen farther than his house, though it stands on a hill,— 


210 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


aye, and brings him more honour too. It was his charity that 
put him in the book, where the squire says he puts all those 
who deserve it; and to be sure, as he lives among all the great 
people, if there were any such, he would know them.” This 
Was all of Mr Joseph Andrew’s speech which I could get 
him to recollect, which I have delivered as near as was pos¬ 
sible in his own words, with a very small embellishment. 
But I believe the reader hath not been a little surprised at 
the long silence of parson Adams, especially as so many oc¬ 
casions offered themselves to exert his curiosity and observa¬ 
tion. The truth is, he was fast asleep, and had so been from 
the beginning of the preceding narrative; and, indeed, if the 
reader considers that so many hours had passed since he 
had closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose, though 
even Henley himself, or as great an orator (if any such be), 
had been in his rostrum or tub before him. 

Joseph, who whilst he was speaking had continued in one 
attitude, with his head reclining on one side, and his eyes 
cast on the ground, no sooner perceived, on looking up, the 
position of Adams, who was stretched on his back, and snored 
louder than the usual braying of the animal with long ears, 
than he turned towards Fanny, and, taking her by the hand, 
began a dalliance, which, though consistent with the purest 
innocence and decency, neither he would have attempted nor 
she permitted before any witness. Whilst they amused them¬ 
selves in this harmless and delightful manner they heard 
a pack of hounds approaching in full cry towards them, and 
presently afterwards saw a hare pop forth from the wood, 
and, crossing the water, land within a few yards of them in 
the meadows. The hare was no sooner on shore than it seated 
itself on its hinder legs, and listened to the sound of the 
pursuers. Fanny was wonderfully pleased ‘with the little 
wretch, and eagerly longed to have it in her arms, that she 
might preserve it from the dangers which seemed to threaten 
it; but the rational part of the creation do not always aptly 
distinguish their friends from their foes; what wonder then 
if this silly creature, the moment it beheld her, fled from the 
friend who would have protected it, and, traversing the mea¬ 
dows again, passed the little rivulet on the opposite side ? It 
jyas, however, so spent and weak, that it fell down twice or 



211 


THE ADVENTURES OF. 


thrice in its way. This affected.the tender heart of Fanny, who 
exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, against the barbarity of 
worrying a poor innocent defenceless animal out of its life, 
and putting it to the extremest torture for diversion. She 
had not much time to make reflections of this kind, for on a 
sudden the hounds rushed through the wood, which resounded 
with their throats and the throats of their retinue, who at¬ 
tended on them on horseback. The dogs now past the rivulet, 
and pursued the footsteps of the hare; five horsemen at¬ 
tempted to leap over, three of whom succeeded, and two were 
In the attempt thrown from their saddles into the water; their 
companions, and their own horses too, proceeded after their 
sport, and left their friends and riders to invoke the assistance 
of Fortune, or employ the more active means of strength and 
agility for their deliverance. Joseph, however, was not so 
unconcerned on this occasion; he left Fanny for a moment 
to herself, and ran to the gentlemen, who were immediately 
on their legs, shaking their ears, and easily, with the help of 
his hand, obtained the bank (for the rivulet was not at all 
deep) ; and, without staying to thank their kind assister, ran 
dripping across the meadow, calling to their brother sports¬ 
men to stop their horses; but they heard them not. 

The hounds were now very little behind their poor reeling, 
staggering prey, which, fainting almost at every step, crawled 
through the wood, and had almost got round to the place 
where Fanny stood, when it was overtaken by its enemies, and, 
being driven out of the covert, was caught and instantly tore 
to pieces before Fanny’s face, who was unable to assist it 
with any aid more powerful than pity; nor could she prevail 
on Joseph, who had been himself a sportsman in his youth, 
to attempt anything contrary to the laws of hunting in favour 
of the hare, which he said was killed fairly. 

The hare was caught within a yard or two of Adams, who 
lay asleep at some distance from the lovers; and the hounds, 
in devouring it, and pulling it backwards and forwards, had 
drawn it close to him, that some of them (by mistake per¬ 
haps for the hare’s skin) laid hold of the skirts of his cassock; 
others, at the same time applying their teeth to his wig, which 
he had with a handkerchief fastened to his head, began to pull 
him about; and had not the motion of his body had more effect 

212 



' • • V* 




., «i -A- 


r..: 






































. . 
















































































































































































































































































































































































































































JOSEPH ANDREWS 


on him than seemed to be wrought by the noise, they must 
certainly have tasted his flesh, which delicious flavour might 
have been fatal to him; but, being roused by these tuggings, 
he instantly awakened, and with a jerk delivering his head 
from his wig, he with most admirable dexterity recovered his 
legs, which now seemed the only members he could entrust his 
safety to. Having, therefore, escaped likewise from at least 
a third part of his cassock, which he willingly left as his 
exuvice or spoils to the enemy, he fled with the utmost speed 
he could summon to his assistance. Nor let this be any de¬ 
traction from the bravery of his character: let the number 
of the enemies, and the surprize in which he was taken, be 
considered; and if there be any modern so outrageously brave 
that he cannot admit of flight in any circumstance whatever, 
I say (but I whisper that softly, and I solemnly declare with¬ 
out any intention of giving offence to any brave man in the 
nation), I say, or rather I whisper, that he is an ignorant 
fellow, and hath never read Homer nor Virgil, nor knows 
he anything of Hector or Turnus; nay, he is unacquainted 
with the history of some great men living, who, though as 
brave as lions, aye, as tigers, have run away, the Lord knows 
how far, and the Lord knows why, to the surprize of their 
friends and the entertainment of their enemies. But if per¬ 
sons of such heroic disposition are a little offended at the 
behaviour of Adams, we assure them they shall be as much 
pleased with what we shall immediately relate of Joseph An¬ 
drews. The master of the pack was just arrived, or, as the 
sportsmen call it, come in, when Adams set out, as we have 
before mentioned. This gentleman was generally said to be 
a great lover of humour; but, not to mince the matter, espe¬ 
cially as we are upon this subject, he was a greater hunter 
of men; indeed, he had hitherto followed the sport only with 
dogs of his own species; for he kept two or three couple of 
barking curs for that use only. However, as he thought he 
had now found a man nimble enough, he was willing to in¬ 
dulge himself with other sport, and accordingly, crying out, 
stole away, encouraged the hounds to pursue Mr Adams, 
swearing it was the largest jack-hare he ever saw; at the same 
time hallooing and hooping as if a conquered foe was flying 
before him; in which he was imitated by these two or three 

213 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


couple of human or rather two-legged curs on horseback: 
which we have mentioned before. 

Now thou, whoever thou art, whether a muse, or by what 
other name soever thou choosest to be called, who presidest 
over biography, and hast inspired all the writers of lives in 
hese our times: thou who didst infuse such wonderful hu¬ 
mour into the pen of immortal Gulliver; who hast carefully 
guided the judgment whilst thou hast exalted the nervous 
manly style of thy Mallet: thou who hadst no hand in that 
dedication and preface, or the translations, which thou wouldst 
willingly have struck out of the life of Cicero: lastly, thou 
who, without the assistance of the least spice of literature, 
and even against his inclination, hast, in some pages of his 
book, forced Colley Cibber to write English; do thou assist 
me in what I find myself unequal to. Do thou introduce on 
the plain the young, the gay, the brave Joseph Andrews, 
whilst men shall view him with admiration and envy, tender 
virgins with love and anxious concern for his safety. 

No sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive the distress of his 
friend, when first the quick-scenting dogs attacked him, than 
he grasped his cudgel in his right hand—a cudgel which his 
father had of his grandfather, to whom a mighty strong man 
of Kent had given it for a present in that day when he 
broke three heads on the stage. It was a cudgel of mighty 
strength and wonderful art, made by one of Mr Deard’s best 
workmen, whom no other artificer can equal, and who hath 
made all those sticks which the beaux have lately walked 
with about the Park in a morning; but this was far his 
masterpiece. On its head was engraved a nose and chin, 
which might have been mistaken for a pair of nutcrackers. 
The learned have imagined it designed to represent the Gor¬ 
gon ; but it was in fact copied from the face of a certain long 
English baronet, of infinite wit, humour, and gravity. He 
did intend to have engraved here many histories: as the first 

night of Captain B-’s play, where you would have seen 

critics in embroidery transplanted from the boxes to the pit, 
whose ancient inhabitants were exalted to the galleries, where 
they played on catcalls. He did intend to have painted an 
auction-room, where Mr Cock would have appeared aloft in 
his pulpit, trumpeting forth the praises of a china basin, and 

214 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


with astonishment wondering that “ Nobody bids more for 

that fine, that superb ”-He did intend to have engraved 

many other things, but was forced to leave all out for want 
of room. 

No sooner had Joseph grasped his cudgel in .his hands 
than lightning darted from Kis eyes; and the heroic youth, 
swift of foot, ran with the utmost speed to his friend’s assist¬ 
ance. He overtook him just as Rockwood had laid hold of 
the skirt of his cassock, which, being torn, hung to the ground. 
Reader, we would make a simile on this occasion, but for two 
reasons: the first is, it would interrupt the description, which 
should be rapid in this part; but that doth not weigh much, 
many precedents occurring for such an interruption: the sec¬ 
ond and much the greater reason is, that we could find no 
simile adequate to our purpose: for indeed, what instance 
could we bring to set before our reader’s eyes at once the 
idea of friendship, courage, youth, beauty, strength, and swift¬ 
ness? all which blazed in the person of Joseph Andrews. 
Let those, therefore, that describe lions and tigers, and heroes 
fiercer than both, raise their poems or plays with the simile 
of Joseph Andrews, who is himself above the reach of any 
simile. 

Now Rockwood had laid fast hold on the parson’s skirts, 
and stopt his flight; which Joseph no sooner perceived than 
he levelled his cudgel at his head and laid him sprawling. 
Jowler and Ringwood then fell on his great-coat, and had 
undoubtedly brought him to the ground, had not Joseph, 
collecting all his force, given Jowler such a rap on the back, 
that, quitting his hold, he ran howling over the plain. A 
harder fate remained for thee, O Ringwood! Ringwood, the 
best hound that ever pursued a hare, who never threw his 
tongue but where the scent was undoubtedly true; good at 
trailing, and sure in a highway; no babbler, no overrunner; 
respected by the whole pack, who, whenever he opened, they 
knew the game was at hand. He fell by the stroke of Joseph. 
Thunder and Plunder, and Wonder and Blunder, were the- 
next victims of his wrath, and measured their lengths on the 
ground. Then Fairmaid, a bitch which Mr John Temple 
had bred up in his house, and fed at his own table, and lately 
sent tlie squire fifty miles for a present, ran fiercely at Joseph 

2I 5 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


and bit him by the leg: no dog was ever fiercer than she, 
being descended from an Amazonian breed, and had worried 
bulls in her own country, but now waged an unequal fight, 
and had shared the fate of those we have mentioned before, 
had not Diana (the reader may believe it or not as he pleases) 
in that instant interposed, and, in the shape of the hunts¬ 
man, snatched her favourite up in her arms. 

The parson now faced about, and with his crabstick felled 
many to the earth, and scattered others, till he was attacked 
by Csesar and pulled to the ground. Then Joseph flew to 
his rescue, and with such might fell on the victor, that, O 
eternal blot to his name! Caesar ran yelping away. 

The battle now raged with the most dreadful violence, 
when, lo! the huntsman, a man of years and dignity, lifted 
his voice, and called his hounds from the fight, telling them, 
in a language they understood, that it was in vain to con¬ 
tend longer, for that fate had decreed the victory to their 
enemies. 

Thus far the muse hath with her usual dignity related this 
prodigious battle, a battle we apprehend never equalled by 
any poet, romance or life writer whatever, and, having brought 
it to a conclusion, she ceased; we shall therefore proceed in 
our ordinary style with the continuation of this history. The 
squire and his companions, whom the figure of Adams and the 
gallantry of Joseph had at first thrown into a violent fit of 
laughter, and who had hitherto beheld the engagement with 
more delight than any chase, shooting-match, race, cock-fight¬ 
ing, bull or bear baiting, had ever given them, began now to 
apprehend the danger of their hounds, many of which lay 
sprawling in the fields. The squire, therefore, having first 
called his friends about him, as guards for safety of his per¬ 
son, rode manfully up to the combatants, and, summoning 
all the terror he was master of into his countenance, de¬ 
manded with an authoritative voice of Joseph what he meant 
by assaulting his dogs in that manner? Joseph answered, 
with great intrepidity, that they had first fallen on his friend; 
and if they had belonged to the greatest man in the kingdom, 
he would have treated them in the same way; for, whilst his 
veins contained a single drop of blood, he would not stand idle 
by and see that gentleman (pointing to Adams) abused either 

216 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


by man or beast; and, having so said, both he and Adams 
brandished their wooden weapons, and put themselves in such 
a posture, that the squire and his company thought proper to 
preponderate before they offered to revenge the cause of their 
four-footed allies. 

At this instant Fanny, whom the apprehension of Joseph’s 
danger had alarmed so much that, forgetting her own, she 
had made the utmost expedition, came up. The squire and all 
the horsemen were so surprized with her beauty, that they 
immediately fixed both their eyes and thoughts solely on her, 
every one declaring he had never seen so charming a creature. 
Neither mirth nor anger engaged them a moment longer, but 
all sat in silent amaze. The huntsman only was free from 
her attraction, who was busy in cutting the ears of the dogs, 
and endeavouring to recover them to life; in which he suc¬ 
ceeded so well, that only two of no great note remained 
slaughtered on the field of action. Upon this the huntsman 
declared, ’twas well it was no worse; for his part he could 
not blame the gentleman, and wondered his master would 
encourage the dogs to hunt Christians; that it was the surest 
way to spoil them, to make them follow vermin instead of 
sticking to a hare. 

The squire, being informed of the little mischief that had 
been done, and perhaps having more mischief of another kind 
in his head, accosted Mr Adams with a more favourable aspect 
than before : he told him he was sorry for what had happened; 
that he had endeavoured all he could to prevent it the mo¬ 
ment he was acquainted with his cloth, and greatly com¬ 
mended the courage of his servant, for so he imagined Joseph 
to be. He then invited Mr Adams to dinner, and desired the 
young woman might come with him. Adams refused a long 
while; but the invitation was repeated with so much earnest¬ 
ness and courtesy, that at length he was forced to accept it. 
His wig and hat, and other spoils of the field, being gathered 
together by Joseph (for otherwise probably they would have 
been forgotten), he put himself into the best order he could; 
and then the horse and foot moved forward in the same pace 
towards the squire’s house, which stood at a very little dis¬ 
tance. 

Whilst they were on the road the lovely Fanny attracted 
217 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


the eyes of all: they endeavoured to outvie one another in 
encomiums on her beauty; which the reader will pardon my 
not relating, as they had not anything new or uncommon in 
them: so must he likewise my not setting down the many 
curious jests which were made on Adams; some of them de¬ 
claring that parson-hunting was the best sport in the world; 
others, commending his standing at bay, which they said he 
had done as well as any badger; with such-like merriment, 
which, though it would ill become the dignity of this history, 
afforded much laughter and diversion to the squire and his 
facetious companions. 


CHAPTER VII. 


A SCENE OF ROASTING, VERY NICELY ADAPTED TO THE PRESENT 
TASTE AND TIMES. 

HEY arrived at the squire’s house, just as his dinner was 



i ready. A little dispute arose on the account of Fanny, 
whom the squire, who was a bachelor, was desirous to place 
at his own table; but she would not consent, nor would Mr 
Adams permit her to be parted from Joseph; so that she 
was at length with him consigned over to the kitchen, where 
the servants were ordered to make him drunk; a favour 
which was likewise intended for Adams; which design being 
executed, the squire thought he should easily accomplish 
what he had when he first saw her intended to perpetrate 
with Fanny. 

It may not be improper, before we proceed farther, to open 
a little the character of this gentleman, and that of his friends. 
The master of this house, then, was a man of a very con¬ 
siderable fortune; a bachelor, as we have said, and about 
forty years of age: he had been educated (if we may here 
use the expression) in the country, and at his own home, 
under the care of his mother, and a tutor who had orders 
never to correct him, nor to compel him to learn more than 
he liked, which it seems was very little, and that only in his 
childhood; for from the age of fifteen he addicted himself 


218 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 

entirely to hunting and other rural amusements, for which 
his mother took care to equip him with horses, hounds, and 
all other necessaries; an f± his tutor, endeavouring to ingratiate 
himself with his young pupil, who would, he knew, be able 
handsomely to provide for him, became his companion, not 
only at these exercises, but likewise over a bottle, which the 
young squire had a very early relish for. At the age of 
twenty his mother began to think she had not fulfilled the 
duty of a parent; she therefore resolved to persuade her son, 
if possible, to that which she imagined would well supply all 
that he might have learned at a public school or university, 
—that is what they commonly call travelling; which, with 
the help of the tutor, who was fixed on to attend him, she 
easily succeeded in. He made in three years the tour of 
Europe, as they term it, and returned home well furnished 
with French clothes, phrases, and servants, with a hearty 
contempt for his own country; especially what had any 
savour of the plain spirit and honesty of our ancestors. His 
mother greatly applauded herself at his return. And now, 
being master of his own fortune, he soon procured himself a 
seat in parliament, and was in the common opinion one of 
the finest gentlemen of his age: but what distinguished him 
chiefly was a strange delight which he took in everything 
which is ridiculous, odious, and absurd in his own species; 
so that he never chose a companion without one or more of 
these ingredients, and those who were marked by nature in 
the most eminent degree with them were most his favourites. 
If he ever found a man who either had not, or endeavoured 
to conceal, these imperfections, he took great pleasure in in¬ 
venting methods of forcing him into absurdities which were 
not natural to him, or in drawing forth and exposing those 
that were; for which purpose he was always provided with 
a set of fellows, whom we have before called curs, and who 
did, indeed, no great honour to the canine kind; their busi¬ 
ness was to hunt out and display everything that had any 
savour of the above-mentioned qualities, and especially in 
the gravest and best characters; but if they failed in their 
search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom themselves 
into ridicule, for the diversion of their master and feeder. 

219 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


The gentlemen of curlike disposition who were now at his 
house, and whom he had brought with him from London, 
were, an old half-pay officer, a player, a dull poet, a quack- 
doctor, a scraping fiddler, and a lame German dancing-master. 

As soon as dinner was served, while Mr Adams was say¬ 
ing grace, the captain conveyed his chair from behind him; 
so that when he endeavoured to seat himself he fell down on 
the ground, and this completed joke the first, to the great 
entertainment of the whole company. The second joke was 
performed by the poet, who sat next him on the other side, 
and took an opportunity, while poor Adams was respectfully 
drinking to the master of the house, to overturn a plate of 
soup into his breeches; which, with the many apologies he 
made, and the parson’s gentle answers, caused much mirth 
in the company. Joke the third was served up by one of 
the waiting-men, who had been ordered to convey a quantity 
of gin into Mr Adams’s ale, which he declaring to be the best 
liquor he ever drank, but rather too rich of the malt, con¬ 
tributed again to their laughter. Mr Adams, from whom 
we had most of this relation, could not recollect all the jests 
of this kind practised on him, which the inoffensive disposi¬ 
tion of his own heart made him slow in discovering; and in¬ 
deed, had it not been for the information which we re¬ 
ceived from a servant of the family, this part of our history, 
which we take to be none of the least curious, must have been 
deplorably imperfect; though we must own it probable that 
some more jokes were (as they call it) cracked during their 
dinner; but we have by no means been able to come at the 
knowledge of them. When dinner was removed, the poet 
began to repeat some verses, which, he said, were made ex¬ 
tempore. The following is a copy of them, procured with 
the greatest difficulty: 

An extempore Poem on parson Adams. 

Did ever mortal such a parson view ? 

His cassock old, his wig not over-new, 

Well might the hounds have him for fox mistaken, 

In smell more like to that than rusty bacon; * 

* All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hi nt a piece of 
rusty bacon trailed on the ground. 


220 


JOSEPH. ANDREWS 


But would it not make any mortal stare 
To see this parson taken for a hare? 

Could Phoebus err thus grossly, even he 
For a good player might have taken thee. 

At which words the bard whipt off the player’s wig, and 
received the approbation of the company, rather perhaps for 
the dexterity of his hand than his head. The player, instead 
of retorting the jest on the poet, began to - display his talents 
on the same subject. He repeated many scraps of wit out of 
plays, reflecting on the whole body of the clergy, which were 
received with great acclamations by all present. It was now 
the dancing-master’s turn to exhibit his talents; he therefore, 
addressing himself to Adams in broken English, told him, 
“ He was a man ver well made for de dance, and he suppose 
by his walk dat he had learn of some great master.” He said, 
“ It was ver pritty quality in clergyman to dance; ” and con¬ 
cluded with desiring him to dance a minuet, telling him, his 
cassock would serve for petticoats; and that he would him¬ 
self be his partner. At which words, without waiting for 
an answer, he pulled out his gloves, and the fiddler was pre¬ 
paring his fiddle. The company all offered the dancing- 
master wagers that the parson out-danced him, which he re¬ 
fused, saying he believed so too, for he had never seen any 
man in his life who “ looked de dance so well as de gentle¬ 
man : ” he then stepped forwards to take Adams by the 
hand, which the latter hastily withdrew, and, at the same 
time clenching his fist, advised him not to carry the 
jest too far, for he would not endure being put upon. The 
dancing-master no sooner saw the fist than he prudently re¬ 
tired out of its reach, and stood aloof, mimicking Adams, 
whose eyes were fixed on him, not guessing what he was at, 
but to avoid his laying hold on him, which he had once at¬ 
tempted. In the mean while, the captain, perceiving an op¬ 
portunity, pinned a cracker or devil to the cassock, and then 
lighted it with their little smoking-candle. Adams, being 
a stranger to this sport, and believing he had been blown up 
in reality, started from his chair, and jumped about the room, 
to the infinite joy of the beholders, who declared he was the 
best dancer in the universe. As soon as the devil had done 


221 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


tormenting him, and he had a little recovered his confusion, 
he returned to the table, standing up in the posture of one 
who intended to make a speech. They all cried out, “ Hear 
him, hear him; ” and he then spoke in the following manner: 
“ Sir, I am sorry to see one to whom Providence hath been 
so bountiful in bestowing his favours make so ill and un¬ 
grateful a return for them; for, though you have not insulted 
me yourself, it is visible you have delighted in those that 
do it, nor have once discouraged the many rudenesses which 
have been shown towards me; indeed, towards yourself, if 
you rightly understood them; for I am your guest, and by 
the laws of hospitality entitled to your protection. One gen¬ 
tleman had thought proper to produce some poetry upon me, 
of which I shall only say, that I had rather be the subject 
than the composer. He hath pleased to treat me with disre¬ 
spect as a parson. I apprehend my order is not the subject 
of scorn, nor that I can become so, unless by being a disgrace 
to it, which I hope poverty will never be called. Another 
gentleman, indeed, hath repeated some sentences, where the 
order itself is mentioned with contempt. He says they are 
taken from plays. I am sure such plays are a scandal to 
the government which permits them, and cursed will be the 
nation where they are represented. How others have treated 
me I need not observe; they themselves, when they reflect, 
must allow the behaviour to be as improper to my years as 
to my cloth. You found me, sir, travelling with two of my 
parishioners (I omit your hounds falling on me; for I have 
quite forgiven it, whether it proceeded from the wantonness 
or negligence of the huntsman) : my appearance might very 
well persuade you that your invitation was an act of charity, 
though in reality we were well provided; yes, sir, if we had 
had an hundred miles to travel, we had sufficient to bear our 
expenses in a noble manner.” (At which words he produced 
the half-guinea which was found in the basket.) “ I do not 
show you this out of ostentation of riches, but to convince 
you I speak truth. Your seating me at your table was an hon¬ 
our which I did not ambitiously affect. When I was here, I 
endeavoured to behave towards you with the utmost respect; 
if I have failed, it was not with design; nor could I, certainly, 

222 ^ 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


so far be guilty as to deserve the insults I have suffered. If 
they were meant, therefore, either to my order or my poverty 
(and you see I am not very poor), the shame doth not lie at 
my door, and I heartily pray that the sin may be averted 
from yours.” He thus finished, and received a general clap 
from the whole company. Tfyen the gentleman of the house 
told him, he was sorry for what had happened; that he could 
not accuse him of any share in it; that the verses were, as 
himself had well observed, so bad, that he might easily answer 
them; and for the serpent, it was undoubtedly a very great 
affront done him by the dancing-master, for which, if he well 
thrashed him, as he deserved, he should be very much 
pleased to see it (in which, probably, he spoke truth). Adams 
answered, whoever had done it, it was not his profession to 
punish him that way; “ But for the person whom he had ac¬ 
cused, I am a witness,” says he, “ of his innocence; for I had 
my eye on him all the while. Whoever he was, God forgive 
him, and bestow on him a little more sense as well as hu¬ 
manity.” The captain answered with a surly look and accent, 
that he hoped he did not mean to reflect upon him; d—n him, 
he had as much imanity as another, and, if any man said he 
had not, he would convince him of his mistake by cutting 
his throat. Adams, smiling, said, he believed he had spoke 
right by accident. To which the captain returned, what do 
you mean by my speaking right? If you was not a parson, 
I would not take these words; but your gown protects you. 
If any man who wears a sword had said so much, I had 
pulled him by the nose before this. Adams replied, if he 
attempted any rudeness to his person, he would not find any 
protection for himself in his gown; and, clenching his fist, 
declared he had thrashed many a stouter man. The gentle¬ 
man did all he could to encourage this warlike disposition 
in Adams, and was in hopes to have produced a battle, but 
he was disappointed; for the captain made no other answer 
than, it is very well you are a parson; and so, drinking off 
a bumper to old mother Church, ended the dispute. 

Then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, and who 
was the gravest but most mischievous dog of all, in a very 
pompous speech highly applauded what Adams had said, 

.4 22 3 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


and as much discommended the behaviour to him. He pro¬ 
ceeded to encomiums on the church and poverty; and, lastly, 
recommended forgiveness of what had passed to Adams, who 
immediately answered, that everything was forgiven; and 
in the warmth of his goodness he filled a bumper of strong 
beer (a liquor he preferred to wine), and drank a health 
to the whole company, shaking the captain and the poet 
heartily by the hand, and addressing himself with great re¬ 
spect to the doctor; who, indeed, had not laughed outwardly 
at anything that past, as he had a perfect command of his 
muscles, and could laugh inwardly without betraying the 
least symptoms in his countenance. The doctor now began 
a second formal speech, in which he declaimed against all 
levity of conversation, and what is usually called mirth. He 
said, There were amusements fitted for persons of all ages 
and degrees, from the rattle to the discussing a point of phi¬ 
losophy; and that men discovered themselves in nothing 
more than in the choice of their amusements; “ For,” says he, 
“ as it must greatly raise our expectation of the future con¬ 
duct in life of boys whom in their tender years we perceive, 
instead of taw or balls, or other childish playthings, to choose, 
at their leisure hours, to exercise their genius in conten¬ 
tions of wit, learning, and such like; so must it inspire one 
with equal contempt of a man, if we should discover him 
playing at taw or other childish play.” Adams highly com¬ 
mended the doctor’s opinion, and said, he had often won¬ 
dered at some passages in ancient authors, where Scipio, 
Lselius, and other great men, were represented to have passed 
many hours in amusements of the most trifling kind. The 
doctor replied, he had by him an old Greek manuscript where 
a favourite diversion of Socrates was recorded. “ Aye! ” 
says the parson eagerly: “ I should be most infinitely obliged 
to you for the favour of perusing it.” The doctor promised 
to send it him, and farther said, that he believed he could 
describe it. “ I think,” says he, “ as near as I can remember, 
it was this: there was a throne erected, on one side of which 
sat a king, and on the other a queen, with their guards and 
attendants ranged on both sides; to them was introduced an 
ambassador, which part Socrates always used to perform 

224 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


himself; and when he was led up to the footsteps of the throne 
he addressed himself to the monarchs in some grave speech, 
full of virtue, and goodness, and morality, and such like. 
After which, he was seated between the king and queen, and 
royally entertained. This I think was the chief part. Per¬ 
haps I may have forgot some*particulars; for it is long since I 
read it.” Adams said, it was, indeed, a diversion worthy 
the relaxation of so great a man; and thought something re- . 
sembling it should be instituted among our great men, in¬ 
stead of cards and other idle pastime, in which, he was in¬ 
formed, they trifled away too much of their lives. He added, 
the Christian religion was a nobler subject for these speeches, 
than any Socrates could have invented. The gentleman of 
the house approved what Mr Adams said, and declared he 
was resolved to perform the ceremony this very evening. To 
which the doctor objected, as no one was prepared with a 
speech, “ unless,” said he (turning to Adams with a gravity 
of countenance which would have deceived a more knowing 
man), “you have a sermon about you, doctor.” “Sir,” 
said Adams, “ I never travel without one, for fear of 
what may happen.” He was easily prevailed on by his wor¬ 
thy friend, as he now called the doctor, to undertake the part 
of the ambassador; so that the gentleman sent immediate 
orders to have the throne erected, which was performed 
before they had drank two bottles; and, perhaps, the reader 
will hereafter have no great reason to admire the nimbleness 
of the servants. Indeed, to confess the truth, the throne was 
no more than this: there was a great tub of water provided, 
on each side of which were placed two stools raised higher 
than the surface of the tub, and over the whole was laid a 
blanket; on these stools were placed the king and queen, 
namely, the master of the house and the captain. And now 
the ambassador was introduced between the poet and the 
doctor; who, having read his sermon, to the great entertain¬ 
ment of all present, was led up to his place and seated be¬ 
tween their majesties. They immediately rose up, when the 
blanket, wanting its supports at either end, gave way, and 
soused Adams over head and ears in the water. The captain 
made his escape, but, unluckily, the gentleman himself not 
is 225 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


being as nimble as he ought, Adams caught hold of him be¬ 
fore he descended from his throne, and pulled him in with 
him, to the entire secret satisfaction of all the company. 
Adams after ducking the squire twice or thrice, leapt out of 
the tub, and looked sharp for the doctor, whom he would 
certainly have conveyed to the same place of honour; but 
he had wisely withdrawn: he then searched for his crabstick, 
and having found that, as well as his fellow travellers, he 
declared he would not stay a moment longer in such a house. 
He then departed, without taking leave of his host, whom 
he had exacted a more severe revenge on than he intended; 
for, as he did not use sufficient care to dry himself in time, 
he caught a cold by the accident which threw him into a 
fever that had like to have cost him his life. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

WHICH SOME READERS WILL THINK TOO SHORT AND OTHERS 
TOO LONG. 

ADAMS, and Joseph, who was no less enraged than his 
jTx. friend at the treatment he met with, went out with their 
sticks in their hands, and carried off Fanny, notwithstanding 
the opposition of the servants, who did all, without proceed¬ 
ing to violence, in their power to detain them. They walked 
as fast as they could, not so much from any apprehension of 
being pursued as that Mr Adams might, by exercise, prevent 
any harm from the water. The gentleman, who had given 
such orders to his servants concerning Fanny that he did not 
in the least fear her getting away, no sooner heard that she 
was gone, than he began to rave, and immediately despatched 
several with orders either to bripg her back or never return. 
The poet, the player, and all but the dancing-master and doc¬ 
tor, went on this errand. 

The night was very dark in which our friends began their 
journey; however, they made • such expedition, that they 
soon arrived at an inn which was at seven miles’ distance. 

226 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


Here they unanimously consented to pass the evening, Mr 
Adams being now as dry as he was before he had set out on 
his embassy. 

This inn, which indeed we might call an ale-house, had 
not the words, The New Inn, been writ on the sign, afforded 
them no better provision than bread and cheese and ale; on 
which, however, they made a very comfortable meal; for 
hunger is better than a French cook. 

They had no sooner supped, than Adams, returning thanks 
to the Almighty for his food, declared he had ate his homely 
commons with much greater satisfaction than his splendid 
dinner; and expressed great contempt for the folly of man¬ 
kind, who sacrificed their hopes of heaven to the acquisition 
of vast wealth, since so much comfort was to be found in the 
humblest state and the lowest provision. “ Very true, sir,” 
says a grave man who sat smoking his pipe by the fire, and 
who was a traveller as well as himself. “ I have often been 
as much surprized as you are, when I consider the value 
which mankind in general set on riches, since every day’s 
experience shows us how little is in their power; for what, 
indeed, truly desirable, can they bestow on us? Can they 
give beauty to the deformed, strength to the weak, or health 
to the infirm ? Surely if they could we should not see so many 
ill-favoured faces haunting the assemblies of the great, nor 
would such numbers of feeble wretches languish in their 
coaches and palaces. No, not the wealth of a kingdom can 
purchase any paint to dress pale Ugliness in the bloom of 
that young maiden, nor any drugs to equip Disease with the 
vigour of that young man. Do not riches bring us solicitude 
instead of rest, envy instead of affection, and danger instead 
of safety ? Can they prolong their own possession, or 
lengthen his days who enjoys them? So far otherwise, that 
the sloth, the luxury, the care which attend them, shorten the 
lives of millions, and bring them with pain and misery to an 
untimely grave. Where then is their value if they can 
neither embellish nor strengthen our forms, sweeten nor pro¬ 
long our lives ?—Again : Can they adorn the mind more than 
the body? Do they not rather swell the heart with vanity, 
puff up the cheeks with pride, shut our ears to every call of 

227 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


virtue, and our bowels to every motive of compassion ? 
“ Give me your hand, brother,” said Adams, in a rapture, “ for 
I suppose you are a clergyman.”—“ No, truly,” answered the 
other (indeed, he was a priest of the church of Rome; but 
those who understand our laws will not wonder he was not 
over-ready to own it).—“Whatever you are,” cries Adams, 
“ you have spoken my sentiments: I believe I have preached 
every syllable of your speech twenty times over; for it hath 
always appeared to me easier for a cable-rope (which by the 
way is the true rendering of that word we have translated 
camel) to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man 
to get into the kingdom of heaven.”—“ That, sir,” said the 
other, “ will be easily granted you by divines, and is deplor¬ 
ably true; but as the prospect of our good at a distance doth 
not so forcibly affect us, it might be of some service to man¬ 
kind to be made thoroughly sensible—which I think they 
might be with very little serious attention—that even the 
blessings of this world are not to be purchased with riches; 
a doctrine, in my opinion, not only metaphysically, but, if I 
may so say, mathematically demonstrable; and which I have 
been always so perfectly convinced of that I have a contempt 
for nothing so much as for gold.” Adams now began a long 
discourse: but as most which he said occurs among many 
authors who have treated this subject, I shall omit inserting 
it. During its continuance Joseph and Fanny retired to rest, 
and the host likewise left the room. When the English par¬ 
son had concluded, the Romish resumed the discourse, which 
he continued with great bitterness and invective; and at last 
ended by desiring Adams to lend him eighteen-pence to 
pay his reckoning; promising, if he never paid him, he might 
be assured of his prayers. The good man answered that 
eighteen-pence would be too little to carry him any very 
long journey; that he had half a guinea in his pocket, which 
he would divide with him. He then fell to searching his 
pockets, but could find no money; for indeed the company 
with whom he dined had passed one jest upon him which we 
did not then enumerate, and had picked his pocket of all that 
treasure which he had so ostentatiously produced. 

“ Bless me! ” cried Adams, “ I have certainly lost it; I can 
228 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


never have spent it. Sir, as I am a Christian, I had a whole 
half-guinea in my pocket this morning, and have not now a 
single halfpenny of it left. Sure the devil must have taken 
it from me! ”—“ Sir/' answered the priest smiling, “you need 
make no excuses; if you are not willing to lend me the money 
I am contented.”—“ Sir,” cries Adams, “ if I had the 
greatest sum in the world—aye, if I had ten pounds about 
me—I would bestow it all to rescue any Christian from dis¬ 
tress. I am more vexed at my loss on your account than my 
own. Was ever anything so unlucky? Because I have no 
money in my pocket I shall be suspected to be no Christian.” 
—“ I am more unlucky,” quoth the other, “ if you are as gen¬ 
erous as you say; for really a crown would have made me 
happy, and conveyed me in plenty to the place I am going, 
which is not above twenty miles off, and where I can arrive 
by to-morrow night. I assure you I am not accustomed to 
travel pennyless. I am but just arrived in England; and we 
were forced by a storm in our passage to throw all we had 
overboard. I don’t suspect but this fellow will take my word 
for the trifle I owe him; but I hate to appear so mean as to 
confess myself without a shilling to such people; for these, 
and indeed too many others, know little difference in their 
estimation between a beggar and a thief.” However, he 
thought he should deal better with the host that evening than 
the next morning: he therefore resolved to set out immedi¬ 
ately, notwithstanding the darkness; and accordingly, as soon 
as the host returned, he communicated to him the situation 
of his affairs; upon which the host, scratching his head, an¬ 
swered, “ Why I do not know, master; if it be so, and you 
have no money, I must trust, I think, though I had rather 
always have ready money if I could; but, marry, you look 
like so honest a gentleman that I don’t fear your paying me 
if it was twenty times as much.” The priest made no re¬ 
ply, but, taking leave of him and Adams as fast as he could, 
not without confusion, and perhaps with some distrust of 
Adams’s sincerity, departed. 

He was no sooner gone than the host fell a shaking his 
head, and declared, if he had suspected the fellow had no 
money, he would not have drawn him a single drop of drink, 

229 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


saying he despaired of ever seeing his face again, for that he 
looked like a confounded rogue. “ Rabbit the fellow,” cries 
he, “ I thought, by his talking so much about riches, that he 
had a hundred pounds at least in his pocket.” Adams chid 
him for his suspicions, which, he said, were not becoming a 
Christian; and then, without reflecting on his loss, or con¬ 
sidering how he himself should depart in the morning, he re¬ 
tired to a very homely bed, as his companions had before; 
however, health and fatigue gave them a sweeter repose than 
is often in the power of velvet and down to bestow. 


CHAPTER IX. 

CONTAINING AS SURPRIZING AND BLOODY ADVENTURES AS CAN 
BE FOUND IN THIS OR PERHAPS ANY OTHER AUTHENTIC 
HISTORY. 

I T was almost morning when Joseph Andrews, whose eyes 
the thoughts of his dear Fanny had opened, as he lay 
fondly meditating on that lovely creature, heard a violent 
knocking at the door over which he lay. He presently jumped 
out of bed, and, opening the window', was asked if there were 
no travellers in the house? and presently, by another voice, 
if two men and a young woman had not taken up their lodg¬ 
ings there that night? Though he knew r not the voices, he 
began to entertain a suspicion of the truth—for indeed he 
had received some information from one of the servants of 
the squire’s house of his design—and answered in the negative. 
One of the servants, who knew the host well, called out to him 
by his name just as he had opened another window, and 
asked him the same question; to which he answered in the 
affirmative. O ho! said another, have we found you? and 
ordered the host to come down and open the door. Fanny, 
who was as wakeful as Joseph, no sooner heard all this than 
she leaped from her bed, and, hastily putting on her gown 
and petticoats, ran as fast as possible to Joseph’s room, who 
then was almost drest. He immediately let her in, and, em¬ 
bracing her with the most passionate tenderness, bid her fear 

230 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


nothing, for he would die in her defence. “ Is that a reason 
why I should not fear,” says she, “ when I should lose what 
is dearer to me than the whole world ? ” Joseph, then kissing 
her hand, said, he could almost thank the occasion which had 
extorted from her a tenderness she would never indulge him 
with before. He then ran and waked his bedfellow Adams, 
who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many calls from 
Joseph; but was no sooner made sensible of their danger than 
he leaped from his bed, without considering the presence of 
Fanny, who hastily turned her face from him, and enjoyed 
a double benefit from the dark, which, as it would have pre¬ 
vented any offence to an innocence less pure, or a modesty less 
delicate, so it concealed even those blushes which were raised 
in her. 

Adams had soon put on all his clothes but his breeches, 
which, in the hurry, he forgot; however, they were pretty well 
supplied by the length of his other garments; and now, the 
house-door being opened, the captain, the poet, the player, and 
three servants, came in. The captain told the host that two 
fellows, who were in his house, had run away with a young 
woman, and desired to know in which room she lay. The 
host, who presently believed the story, directed them, and 
instantly the captain and poet, jostling one another, ran up. 
The poet, who was the nimblest, entering the chamber first, 
searched the bed, and every other part, but to no purpose; 
the bird was flown, as the impatient reader, who might other¬ 
wise have been in pain for her, was before advertised. They 
then inquired where the men lay, and were approaching the 
chamber, when Joseph roared out, in a loud voice, that he 
would shoot the first man who offered to attack the door. The 
captain inquired what fire-arms they had; to which the host 
answered, he believed they had none; nay, he was almost con¬ 
vinced of it, for he had heard one ask the other in the even¬ 
ing what they should have done if they had been overtaken, 
when they had no arms; to which the other answered, they 
would have defended themselves with their sticks as long as 
they were able, and God would assist a just cause. This satis¬ 
fied the captain, but not the poet, who prudently retreated 
down-stairs, saying, it was his business to record great actions, 
and not to do them. The captain was no sooner well satis- 

231 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


fied that there were no fire-arms than, bidding defiance to 
gunpowder, and swearing he loved the smell of it, he ordered 
the servants to follow him, and, marching boldly up, im¬ 
mediately attempted to force the door, which the servants soon 
helped him to accomplish’. When it was opened, they dis¬ 
covered the enemy drawn up three deep; Adams in the front, 
and Fanny in the rear. The captain told 1 Adams that if they 
would go all back to the house again they should be civilly 
treated; but unless they consented he had orders to carry the 
young lady with him, whom there was great reason to believe 
they had stolen from her parents; for, notwithstanding her 
disguise, her air, which she could not conceal, sufficiently dis¬ 
covered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs. Fanny, 
bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was mistaken; 
that she was a poor helpless foundling, and had no relation 
in the world which she knew of; and, throwing herself on 
her knees, begged that he would not attempt to take her from 
her friends, who, she was convinced, would die before they 
would lose her; which Adams confirmed with words not far 
from amounting to an oath. The captain swore he had no 
leisure to talk, and, bidding them thank themselves for what 
happened, he ordered the servants to fall on, at the same time 
endeavouring to pass by Adams, in order to lay hold on 
Fanny; but the parson, interrupting him, received a blow 
from one of them, which, without considering whence it 
came, he returned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous 
a knock in that part of the stomach which is vulgarly called 
the pit, that he staggered some paces backwards. The cap¬ 
tain, who was not accustomed to this kind of play, and who 
wisely apprehended the consequence of such another blow, 
two of them seeming to him equal to a thrust through the 
body, drew forth his hanger, as Adams approached him, and 
was levelling a blow at his head which would probably have 
silenced the preacher for ever, had not Joseph in that instant 
lifted up a certain huge stone pot of the chamber with one 
hand, which six beaux could not have lifted with both, and 
discharged it, together with the contents, full in the captain’s 
face. The uplifted hanger dropped from his hand, and he fell 
prostrated on the floor with a lumpish noise, and his halfpence 
rattled in his pocket; the red liquor which his veins contained, 

232 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


and the white liquor which the pot contained, ran in one 
stream down his face and his clothes. Nor had Adams quite 
escaped, some of the water having in its passage shed its 
honours on his head, and began to trickle down the wrinkles 
or rather furrows of his cheeks, when one of the servants, 
snatching a mop out of a pail of water, which had already- 
done its duty in washing the house, pushed it in the parson's 
face; yet could not he bear him down, for the parson, wrest¬ 
ing the mop from the fellow with one hand, with the other 
brought his enemy as low r as the earth, having given him 
a stroke over that part of the face where, in some men of 
pleasure, the natural and artificial noses are conjoined. 

Hitherto, Fortune seemed to incline the victory on the 
travellers' side, when, according to her custom, she began to 
show the fickleness of her disposition; for now the host, enter¬ 
ing the field, or rather chamber of battle, flew directly at 
Joseph, and, darting his head into his stomach (for he was 
a stout fellow and an expert boxer), almost staggered him: 
but Joseph stepping one leg back, did with his left hand so 
chuck him under the chin that he reeled. The youth was 
pursuing his blow with his right hand when he received from 
one of the servants such a stroke with a cudgel on his temples, 
that it instantly deprived him of sense, and he measured his 
length on the ground. 

Fanny rent the air with her cries, and Adams was coming 
to the assistance of Joseph; but the two serving-men and 
the host now fell on him, and soon subdued him, though he 
fought like a madman, and looked so black with the im¬ 
pressions he had received from the mop, that Don Quixote 
would certainly have taken him for an enchanted Moor. But 
now follows the most tragical part; for the captain was risen 
again, and, seeing Joseph on the floor, and Adams secured, 
he instantly laid hold on Fanny, and, with the assistance of 
the poet and player, who, hearing the battle was over, were 
now come up, dragged her, crying and tearing her hair, from 
the sight of her Joseph, and, with a perfect deafness to all 
her entreaties, carried her down-stairs by violence, and fas¬ 
tened her on the player’s horse; and the captain, mounting 
his own, and leading that on which this poor miserable wretch 
was, departed, without any more consideration of her cries 

233 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


than a butcher hath of those of a lamb; for indeed his thoughts 
were entertained only with the degree of favour which he 
promised himself from the squire on the success of this ad¬ 
venture. 

The servants, who were ordered to secure Adams and Jo¬ 
seph as safe as possible, that the squire might receive no in¬ 
terruption to his design on poor Fanny, immediately, by the 
poet’s advice, tied Adams to one of the bed-posts, as they did 
Joseph on the other side, as soon as they could bring him 
to himself; and then, leaving them together, back to back, and 
desiring the host not to set them at liberty, nor to go near 
them, till he had further orders, they departed \owards their 
master; but happened to take a different road from that which 
the captain had fallen into. 


CHAPTER X. 

A DISCOUSE BETWEEN THE POET AND THE PLAYER; OF NO 
OTHER USE IN THIS HISTORY BUT TO DIVERT THE READER. 

B EFORE we proceed any farther in this tragedy we 
shall leave Mr Joseph and Mr Adams to themselves, 
and imitate the wise conductors of the stage, who in the midst 
of a grave action entertain you with some excellent piece of 
satire or humour called a dance. Which piece, indeed, is 
therefore danced, and not spoke, as it is delivered to the au¬ 
dience by persons whose thinking faculty is by most people 
held to lie in their heels; and to whom, as well as heroes, who 
think with their hands, Nature hath only given heads for the 
sake of conformity, and as they are of no use in dancing, to 
hang their hats on. 

The poet, addressing the player, proceeded thus, “ As I was 
saying ” (for they had been at this discourse all the time of 
the engagement above-stairs), “ the reason you have no good 
new plays is evident; it is from your discouragement of au¬ 
thors. Gentlemen will not write, sir, they will not write, 
without the expectation of fame or profit, or perhaps both.' 
Plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment; 

234 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 

but, like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it were, 
in a rich soil. The muses, like vines, may be pruned, but 
not with a hatchet. The town, like a peevish child, knows 
not what it desires, and is always best pleased with a rattle. 
A farce-writer hath indeed some chance for success: but they 
have lost all taste for the sublime. Though I believe one 
reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors. If a 
man writes like an angel, sir, those fellows know not how to 
give a sentiment utterance.”—“ Not so fast,” says the player: 
“ the modern actors are as good at least as their authors, nay, 
they come nearer their illustrious predecessors; and I expect 
a Booth on the stage again, sooner than a Shakspeare or an 
Otway; and indeed I may turn your observation against you, 
and with truth say, that the reason no authors are encouraged 
is because we have no good new plays.”—“ I have not affirmed 
the contrary,” said the poet; “but I am surprized you grow 
so warm; you cannot imagine yourself interested in this dis¬ 
pute; I hope you have a better opinion of my taste than to 
apprehend I squinted at yourself. No, sir, if we had six such 
actors as you, we should soon rival the Bettertons and Sand- 
fords of former times; for, without a compliment to you, I 
think it impossible for any one to have excelled you in most 
of your parts. Nay, it is solemn truth, and I have heard 
many, and all great judges, express as much; and, you will 
pardon me if I tell you, I think every time I have seen you 
lately you have constantly acquired some new excellence, like 
a snowball. You have deceived me in my estimation of per¬ 
fection, and have outdone what I thought inimitable.”—“ You 
are as little interested,” answered the player, “ in what I have 
said of other poets; for d—n me if there are not manly strokes, 
aye, whole scenes, in your last tragedy, which at least equal 
Shakspeare. There is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity of 
expression in it, which I will own many of our gentlemen 
did not do adequate justice to. To confess the truth, they 
are bad enough, and I pity an author who is present at the 
murder of his works.”—“ Nay, it is but seldom that it can 
happen,” returned the poet; “the works of most modern 
authors, like dead-born children, cannot be murdered. It is 
such wretched half-begotten, half-writ, lifeless, spiritless, low, 
grovelling stuff, that I almost pity the actor who is obliged 

235 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


to get it by heart, which must be almost as difficult to remem¬ 
ber as words in a language you don’t understand.”—“ I am 
sure,” said the player, “ if the sentences have little meaning 
when they are writ, when they are spoken they have less. 
I know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and 
much less adapts his action to his character. I have seen a 
tender lover in an attitude of fighting with his mistress, and a 
brave hero suing to his enemy with his sword in his hand. 
I don’t care to abuse my profession, but rot me if in my 
heart I am not inclined to the poet’s side.”—‘lit is rather 
generous in you than just,” said the poet; “and, though I 
hate to speak ill of any person’s production,—nay, I never 
do it, nor will,—but yet, to do justice to the actors, what 
could Booth or Betterton have made of such horrible stuff as 
Fenton’s Mariamne, Frowde’s Philotas, or Mallet’s Eurydice; 
or those low, dirty, last-dying-speeches, which a fellow in 
the city of Wapping, your Dillo or Lillo, what was his name, 
called tragedies? ”—“ Very well,” says the player; “ and pray 
what do you think of such fellows as Quin and Delane, or 
that face-making puppy young Cibber, that ill-looked dog 
Macklin, or that saucy slut Mrs Clive? What work would 
they make with your Shakspears, Otways, and Lees? How 
would those harmonious lines of the last come from their 
tongues ?— 

“‘-No more; for I disdain 

All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise 
Of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls 
Our kinder fates have steer’d another way. 

Free as the forest birds we’ll pair together, 

Without rememb’ring who our fathers were: 

Fly to the arbours, grots, and flow’ry meads ; 

There in soft murmurs interchange our souls; 

Together drink the crystal of the stream, 

Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields, 

And, when the golden evening calls us home, 

Wing to our downy nests, and sleep till morn.’ ” 

Or how would this disdain of Otway— 

“ Who’d be that foolish sordid thing called man? ” ’ 

236 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


“ Hold! hold! hold! ” said the poet: “ Do repeat that tender 
speech in the third act of my play which you made such a 
figure in.”—“ I would willingly,” said the player, “ but I have 
forgot it.”—“Aye, you was not quite perfect enough in it 
when you played it,” cries the poet, “ or you would have had 
such an applause as was never given on the stage; an applause 
I was extremely concerned for your losing.”—“ Sure,” says 
the player, “if I remember, that was hissed more than any 
passage in the whole play.”—“Aye, your speaking it was 
hissed,” said the poet.—“ My speaking it! ” said the player.— 
“ I mean your not speaking it,” said the poet. “ You was out, 
and then they hissed.”—“ They hissed, and then I was out, 
if I remember,” answered the player; “ and I must say this 
for myself, that the whole audience allowed I did your part 
justice; so don’t lay the damnation of your play to my ac¬ 
count.”—“ I don’t know what you mean by damnation,” re¬ 
plied the poet.—“ Why, you know it was acted but one night,” 
cried the player.—“ No,” said the poet, “ you and the whole 
town were enemies; the pit were all my enemies, fellows that 
would cut my throat, if the fear of hanging did not restrain 
them. All tailors, sir, all tailors.”—“ Why should the tailors 
be so angry with you ? ” cries the player. “ I suppose you 
don’t employ so many in making your clothes.”—“ I admit 
your jest,” answered the poet; “but you remember the affair 
as well as myself; you know there was a party in the pit and 
upper-gallery that would not suffer it to be given out again; 
though much, aye infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in 
particular, were desirous of it; nay, most of the ladies swore 
they never would come to the house till it was acted again. 
Indeed, I must own their policy was good in not letting it be 
given out a second time: for the rascals knew if it had 
gone a second night it would have run fifty; for if ever 
there was distress in a tragedy,—I am not fond of my own 
performance; but if I should tell you what the best judges 

said of it-Nor was it entirely owing to my enemies neither 

that it did not succeed on the stage as well as it hath since 
among the polite readers; for you can’t say it had justice done 
it by the performers.”—“ I think,” answered the player, “ the 
performers did the distress of it justice; for I am sure we 
were in distress enough, who were pelted with oranges all the 

237 




THE ADVENTURES OF 


last act: we all imagined it would have been the last act of 
our lives.” 

The poet, whose fury was now raised, had just attempted 
to answer when they were interrupted, and an end put to 
their discourse, by an accident, which if the reader is impa¬ 
tient to know, he must skip over the next chapter, which is a 
sort of counterpart to this, and contains some of the best and 
gravest matters in the whole book, being a discourse between 
parson Abraham Adams and Mr Joseph Andrews. 


CHAPTER XI. 

CONTAINING THE EXHORTATIONS OF PARSON ADAMS TO HIS 
FRIEND IN AFFLICTION J CALCULATED FOR THE INSTRUCTION 
AND IMPROVEMENT OF THE READER. 

J OSEPH no sooner came perfectly to himself than, per¬ 
ceiving his mistress gone, he bewailed her loss with groans 
which would have pierced any heart but those which are 
possessed by some people, and are made of a certain compo¬ 
sition, not unlike flint in its hardness and other properties; 
for you may strike fire from them, which will dart through 
the eyes, but they can never distil one drop of water the 
same way. His own, poor youth! was of a softer composi¬ 
tion; and at those words, O my dear Fanny! O my love! 
shall I never, never see thee more? his eyes overflowed with 
tears, which would have become any but a hero. In a word, 
his despair was more easy to be conceived than related. 

Mr Adams, after many groans, sitting with his back to 
Joseph, began thus in a sorrowful tone: “ You cannot im¬ 
agine, my good child, that I entirely blame these first agonies 
of your grief; for, when misfortunes attack us by surprize, 
it must require infinitely more learning than you are master 
of to resist them; but it is the business of a man and a Chris¬ 
tian to summon Reason as quickly as he can to his aid; and 
she will presently teach him patience and submission. Be 
comforted, therefore, child; I say be comforted. It is true, 
you have lost the prettiest, kindest, loveliest, sweetest young 

238 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 

woman, one with whom you might have expected to have 
lived in happiness, virtue, and innocence; by whom you might 
have promised yourself many little darlings, who would have 
been the delight of your youth and the comfort of your age. 
You have not only lost her, but have reason to fear the ut¬ 
most violence which lust and power can inflict upon her. 
Now, indeed, you may easily raise ideas of horror, which 
might drive you to despair.”—“O I shall run mad!” cries 
Joseph. “ O that I could but command my hands to tear my 
eyes out and my flesh off! ”—“ If you would use them to such 
purposes, I am glad you can’t,” answered Adams. “ I have 
stated your misfortune as strong as I possibly can; but, on 
the other side, you are to consider you are a Christian, that no 
accident happens to us without the Divine permission, and 
that it is the duty of a man, much more of a Christian, to 
submit. We did not make ourselves; but the same power 
which made us rules over us, and we are absolutely at his 
disposal; he may do with us what he pleases, nor have we any 
right to complain. A second reason against our complaint 
is our ignorance; for, as we know not future events, so 
neither can we tell to what purpose any accident tends; and 
that which at first threatens us with evil may in the end pro¬ 
duce our good. I should indeed have said our ignorance is 
twofold (but I have not at present time to divide properly), 
for, as we know not to what purpose any event is ultimately 
directed, so neither can we affirm from what cause it origi¬ 
nally sprung. You are a man, and consequently a sinner; and 
this may be a punishment to you for your sins: indeed in 
this sense it may be esteemed as a good, yea, as the 
greatest good, which satisfies the anger of Heaven, and averts 
that wrath which cannot continue without our destruction. 
Thirdly, our impotency of relieving ourselves demonstrates 
the folly and absurdity of our complaints: for whom do we 
resist, or against whom do we complain, but a power from 
whose shafts no armour can guard us, no speed can fly?— 
a power which leaves us no hope but in submission.” “ O 
sir! ” cried Joseph, “ all this is very true, and very fine, and I 
could hear you all day if I was not so grieved at heart as now 
I am.”—“ Would you take physic,” says Adams, “ when you 
are well, and refuse it when you are sick? Is not comfort 

2 39 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


to be administered to the afflicted, and not to those who re¬ 
joice or those who are at ease? ” “ O! you have not spoken 
one word of comfort to me yet! ” returned Joseph. “ No! ” 
cries Adams; “ what am I then doing ? what can I say to 
comfort you ? ” “ O tell me/’ cries Joseph, “ that Fanny will 
escape back to my arms, that they shall again enclose that 
lovely creature, with all her sweetness, all her untainted inno¬ 
cence about her! ” “ Why, perhaps you may,” cries Adams, 

“ but I can’t promise you what’s to come. You must, with 
perfect resignation, wait the event: if she be restored to you 
again, it is your duty to be thankful, and so it is if she be not. 
Joseph, if you are wise and truly know your own interest, 
you will peaceably and quietly submit to all the dispensations 
of Providence, being thoroughly assured that all the misfor¬ 
tunes, how great soever, which happen to the righteous, hap¬ 
pen to them for their own good. Nay, it is not your interest 
only, but your duty, to abstain from immoderate grief; which 
if you indulge, you are not worthy the name of a Christian.” 
He spoke these last words with an accent a little severer than 
usual: upon which Joseph begged him not to be angry, saying, 
he mistook him if he thought he denied it was his duty, for 
he had known that long ago. “ What signifies knowing your 
duty, if you do not perform it?” answered Adams. “Your 
knowledge increases your guilt. O Joseph! I never thought 
you had this stubbornness in your mind.” Joseph replied, 

“ He fancied he misunderstood him; which I assure you,” 
says he, “you do, if you imagine I endeavour to grieve; upon, 
my soul I don’t.” Adams rebuked him for swearing, and then^ 
proceeded to enlarge on the folly of grief, telling him, all the 
wise men and philosophers, even among the heathens, had 
written against it, quoting several passages from Seneca, and 
the consolation, which, though it was not Cicero’s, was, he 
said, as good almost as any of his works; and concluded all 
by hinting that immoderate grief in this case might incense 
that power which alone could restore him his Fanny. This 
reason, or indeed rather the idea which it raised of the res¬ 
toration of his mistress, had more effect than all which the 
parson had said before, and for a moment abated his agonies; 
but, when his fears sufficiently set before his eyes the dan¬ 
ger that poor creature was in, his grief returned again with 

240 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


repeated violence, nor could Adams in the least assuage it; 
though it may be doubted in his behalf whether Socrates him¬ 
self could have prevailed any better. 

They remained some time in silence, and groans and sighs 
issued from them both; at length Joseph burst out into the 
following soliloquy:— 

“ Yes, I will bear my sorrows like a man, 

But I must also feel them as a man. 

I cannot but remember such things were. 

And were most dear to me.” 

Adams asked him what stuff that was he repeated? To 
which he answered, they were some lines he had gotten by 
heart out of a play. “ Aye, there is nothing but heathenism 
to be learned from plays,” replied he. “ I never heard of 
any plays fit for a Christian to read, but Cato and the Con¬ 
scious Lovers; and, I must own, in the latter there are some 
things almost solemn enough for a sermon.” But we shall 
now leave them a little, and enquire after the subject of their 
conversation. 


CHAPTER XII. 

MORE ADVENTURES, WHICH WE HOPE WILL AS MUCH PLEASE 
AS SURPRIZE THE READER. 

N EITHER the facetious dialogue which passed between 
the poet and the player, nor the grave and truly solemn 
discourse of Mr Adams, will, we conceive, make the reader 
sufficient amends for the anxiety which he must have felt on 
the account of poor Fanny, whom we left in so deplorable a 
condition. We shall therefore now proceed to the relation of 
what happened to that beautiful and innocent virgin, after 
she fell into the wicked hands of the captain. 

The man of war, having conveyed his charming prize out 
of the inn a little before day, made the utmost expedition in 
his power towards the squire’s house, where this delicate 
creature was to be offered up a sacrifice to the lust of a rav- 
16 241 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


isher. He was not only deaf to all her bewailings and e 
treaties on the road, but accosted her ears with impurf' 
which, having been never before accustomed to them, 
happily for herself very little understood. At last he cha 1 ' 
his note, and attempted to soothe and mollify her, by se 
forth the splendour and luxury which would be her for 
with a man who would have the inclination, and powe T 
to give her whatever her utmost wishes could desire ' 
told her he doubted not but she would soon look kind, 
him, as the instrument of her happiness, and despise 
pitiful fellow whom her ignorance only could make hei* 
of. She answered, she knew not whom he meant; she 
was fond of any pitiful fellow. “ Are you affronted, mac 
says he, “ at my calling him so ? But what better Ccj 
said of one in a livery, notwithstanding your fondness 
him ? ” She returned, that she did not understand him,: 
the man had been her fellow-servant, and she believed 
as honest a creature as any alive; but as for fondness ‘ • 
men—“ I warrant ye,” cries the captain, “ we shall find me ? 
to persuade you to be fond; and I advise you to yield to g •'] 
tie ones, for you may be assured that it is not in your pow* 3 
by any struggles whatever, to preserve your virginit 
two hours longer. It will be your interest to consent; for th 
squire will be much kinder to you if he enjoys you willingly 
than by force.” At which words she began to call alouc 
for assistance (for it was now open day), but, finding none, 
she lifted her eyes to heaven, and supplicated the Divine as¬ 
sistance to preserve her innocence. The captain told her, 
if she persisted in her vociferation, he would find a means of 
stopping her mouth. And now the poor wretch, perceiv¬ 
ing no hopes of succour, abandoned herself to despair, and, 
sighing out the name of Joseph! Joseph! a river of tears 
ran down her lovely cheeks, and wet the handkerchief which 
covered her bosom. A horseman now appeared in the road, 
upon which the captain threatened her violently if she com¬ 
plained; however, the moment they approached each other 
she begged him with the utmost earnestness to relieve a dis¬ 
tressed creature who was in the hands of a ravisher. The 
fellow stopt at these words, but the captain assured him it 

242 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


r as his; wife, and that he was carrying her home from her 
ulterir, which so satisfied the fellow, who was an old one 
nd perhaps a married one too), that he wished him a good 
rney, and rode on. He was no sooner past than the cap- 
1 abused her violently for breaking his commands, and 
>atened to gag her, when two more horsemen, armed with 
ols, came into the road just before them. She again so- 
ed their assistance, and the captain told the same story 
before. Upon which one said to the other, “ That’s a 
*ming wench, Jack; I wish I had been in the fellow’s 
r 'e, whoever he is.” But the other, instead of answering 
, cried out, “ Zounds, I know her; ” and then, turning to 
1 , said, “Sure you are not Fanny Goodwill?”—“Indeed, 

leed, I am,” she cried—“O John! I know you now— 
^aven hath sent you to my assistance, to deliver me from 
is wicked man, who is carrying me away for his vile pur¬ 
ges—O for God’s sake rescue me from him! ” A fierce 
lalogue immediately ensued between the captain and these 
wo men, who, being both armed with pistols, and the chariot 
which they attended being now arrived, the captain saw both 
force and stratagem were vain, and endeavoured to make his 
escape, in which however he could not succeed. The gentle¬ 
man who rode in the chariot ordered it to stop, and with an 
air of authority examined into the merits of the cause; of 
which being advertised by Fanny, whose credit was confirmed 
by the fellow who knew her, he ordered the captain, who 
was all bloody from his encounter at the inn, to be conveyed 
as a prisoner behind the chariot, and very gallantly took 
Fanny into it; for, to say the truth, this gentleman (who 
was no other than the celebrated Mr Peter Pounce, and who 
preceded the Lady Booby only a few miles, by setting out 
earlier in the morning) was a very gallant person, and loved 
a pretty girl better than anything besides his own money or 
the money of other people. 

The chariot now proceeded towards the inn, which, as 
Fanny was informed, lay in their way, and where it arrived 
at that very time while the poet and player were disputing 
aelow-stairs, and Adams and Joseph were discoursing back 
;o back above; just at that period to which we brought them 

243 




THE ADVENTURES OF 


both in the two preceding chapters the chariot stopt at the 
door, and in an instant Fanny, leaping from it, ran up to her 
Joseph.— O reader! conceive if thou canst the joy which 
fired the breasts of these lovers on this meeting; and if thy 
own heart doth not sympathetically assist thee in this con¬ 
ception, I pity thee sincerely from my own; for let the hard¬ 
hearted villain know this, that there is a pleasure in a tender 
sensation beyond any which he is capable of tasting. 

Peter, being informed by Fanny of the presence of Adams, 
stopt to see him, and receive his homage; for, as Peter was 
an hypocrite, a sort of people whom Mr Adams never saw 
through, the one paid that respect to his seeming goodness 
which the other believed to be paid to his riches; hence Mr 
Adams was so much his favourite, that he once lent him four 
pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence to prevent his going 
to gaol on no greater security than a bond and judgment, 
which probably he would have made no use of, though the 
money had not been (as it was) paid exactly at the time. 

It is not perhaps easy to describe the figure of Adams; he 
had risen in such a hurry, that he had on neither breeches, 
garters, nor stockings; nor had he taken from his head a red 
spotted handkerchief, which by night bound his wig, that 
was turned inside out, around his head. He had on his torn 
cassock and his great-coat; but, as the remainder of his cas¬ 
sock hung down below his great-coat, so did a small stripe of 
white, or rather whitish, linen appear below that; to which 
we may add the several colours which appeared on his face, 
where a long piss-burnt beard served to retain the liquor of 
the stone-pot, and that of a blacker hue which distilled from 
the mop.—This figure, which Fanny had delivered from his 
captivity, was no sooner spied by Peter than it disordered 
the composed gravity of his muscles; however, he advised 
him immediately to make himself clean, nor would accept his 
homage in that pickle. 

The poet and player no sooner saw the captain in captivity 
than they began to consider of their own safety, of which 
flight presented itself as the only means; they therefore both 
of them mounted the poet’s horse, and made the most expe¬ 
ditious retreat in their power. 

244 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


1 The host, who well knew Mr Pounce and the Lady Booby’s 
livery, was not a little surprized at this change of the scene; 
nor was his confusion much helped by his wife, who was now 
just risen, and, having heard from him the account of what 
had passed, comforted him with a decent number of fools and 
blockheads; asked him why he did not consult her, and 
told him he would never leave following the nonsensical 
dictates of his own numskull till she and her family were 
ruined. 

Joseph, being informed of the captain's arrival, and see¬ 
ing his Fanny now in safety, quitted her a moment, and, 
running down-stairs, went directly to him, and stripping off 
his coat, challenged him to fight; but the captain refused, 
i saying he did not understand boxing. He then grasped a 
cudgel in one hand, and, catching the captain by the collar 
with the other, gave him a most severe drubbing, and ended 
with telling him he had now had some revenge for what his 
dear Fanny had suffered. 

When Mr. Pounce had a little regaled himself with some 
provision which he had in his chariot, and Mr Adams had 
put on the best appearance his clothes would allow him, 

1 Pounce ordered the captain into his presence, for he said he 
was guilty of felony, and the next justice of peace should 
commit him; but the servants (whose appetite for revenge 
> is soon satisfied), being sufficiently contented with the 
j drubbing which Joseph had inflicted on him, and which was 
I indeed of no very moderate kind, had suffered him to go 
off, which he did, threatening a severe revenge against 
Joseph, which I have never heard he thought proper to 
take. 

The mistress of the house made her voluntary appearance 
before Mr Pounce, and with a thousand curtsies told him, 
she hoped his honour would pardon her husband, who was 
a very nonsense man, for the sake of his poor family; that 
indeed if he could be ruined alone, she should be very willing 
of it; for because as why, his worship very well knew he 
deserved it; but she had three poor small children, who were 
not capable to get their own living; and if her husband was 
sent to gaol, they must all come to the parish; for she was a 

245 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


poor weak woman, continually a-breeding, and had no time 
to work for them. She therefore hoped his honour would 
take it into his worship's consideration, and forgive her hus¬ 
band this time; for she was sure he never intended any harm 
to man, woman, or child; and, if it was not for that block¬ 
head of his own, the man in some things was well enough; 
for she had had three children by him in less than three 
years, and was almost ready to cry out the fourth time. She 
would have proceeded in this manner much longer, had not 
Peter stopt her tongue, by telling her he had nothing to say 
to her husband nor her neither. So, as Adams and the rest 
had assured her of forgiveness, she cried and curtsied out of 
the room. 

Mr Pounce was desirous that Fanny should continue her 
journey with him in the chariot; but she absolutely refused, 
saying she would ride behind Joseph on a horse which one 
of Lady Booby’s servants had equipped him with. But, alas! 
when the horse appeared, it was found to be no other than 
that identical beast which Mr Adams had left behind him at 
the inn, and which these honest fellows, who knew him, had 
redeemed. Indeed, whatever horse they had provided for 
Joseph, they would have prevailed with him to mount none, 
no not even to ride before his beloved Fanny, till the parson 
was supplied; much less would he deprive his friend of the 
beast which belonged to him, and which he knew the moment 
he saw, though Adams did not; however, when he was re¬ 
minded of the affair, and told that they had brought the 
horse with them which he left behind, he answered—Bless 
me! and so I did. 

Adams was very desirous that Joseph and Fanny should 
mount his horse, and declared he could very easily walk 
home. “ If I walked alone,” says he, “ I would wage a shil¬ 
ling that the pedestrian outstripped the equestrian travellers; 
but, as I intend to take the company of a pipe, peradventure 
I may be an hour later.” One of the servants whispered Jo¬ 
seph to take him at his word, and suffer the old put to walk 
if he would: this proposal was answered with an angry look 
and a peremptory refusal by Joseph, who, catching Fanny 
up in his arms, averred he would rather carry her home in 

246 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


that manner, than take away Mr Adams’s horse 
him to walk on foot. 

Perhaps, reader, thou hast seen a contest between tv 
tlemen, or two ladies, quickly decided, though they have 
asserted they would not eat such a nice morsel, and ea 
insisted on the other’s accepting it; but in reality both were 
very desirous to swallow it themselves. Do not therefore 
conclude hence that this dispute would have come to a speedy 
decision: for here both parties were heartily in earnest, and 
it is very probable they would have remained in the inn-yard 
to this day, had not the good Peter Pounce put a stop to it; 
for, finding he had no longer hopes of satisfying his old ap¬ 
petite with Fanny, and being desirous of having some one 
to whom he might communicate his grandeur, he told the 
parson he would convey him home in his chariot. This fa¬ 
vour was by Adams, with many bows and acknowledgments, 
accepted, though he afterwards said, he ascended the chariot 
rather that he might not offend than from any desire of rid¬ 
ing in it, for that in his heart he preferred the pedestrian 
even to the vehicular expedition. All matters being now set¬ 
tled, the chariot, in which rode Adams and Pounce, moved 
forwards; and Joseph having borrowed a pillion from the 
host, Fanny had just seated herself thereon, and had laid 
hold of the girdle which her lover wore for that purpose, 
when the wise beast, who concluded that one at a time was 
sufficient, that two to one were odds, &c., discovered much 
uneasiness at his double load, and began to consider his hinder 
as his fore legs, moving the direct contrary way to that which 
is called forwards. Nor could Joseph, with all his horseman¬ 
ship, persuade him to advance; but, without having any re¬ 
gard to the lovely part of the lovely girl which was on his 
back, he used such agitations that, had not one of the men 
come immediately to her assistance, she had, in plain English, 
tumbled backwards on the ground. This inconvenience was 
presently remedied by an exchange of horses; and then Fanny 
being again placed on her pillion, on a better-natured and 
somewhat a better-fed beast, the parson’s horse, finding he 
had no longer odds to contend with, agreed to march; and 
the whole procession set forwards for Booby-hall, where they 

247 


HE ADVENTURES OF 


lew hours without anything remarkable happen- 
.e road, unless it was a curious dialogue between the 
and the steward: which, to use the language of a late 
ogist, a pattern to all biographers, waits for the reader 
the next chapter. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A CURIOUS DIALOGUE WHICH PASSED BETWEEN MR ABRAHAM 
ADAMS AND MR PETER POUNCE, BETTER WORTH READING 
THAN ALL THE WORKS OF COLLEY CIBBER AND MANY OTHERS. 

T HE chariot had not proceeded far before Mr Adams ob¬ 
served it was a very fine day. “ Aye, and a very fine 
country too,” answered Pounce.—“ I should think so more,” 
returned Adams, “ if I had not lately travelled over the Downs, 
which I take to exceed this and all other prospects in the 
universe.”—“ A fig for prospects ! ” answered Pounce; “ one 
acre here is worth ten there; and for my own part, I have no 
delight in the prospect of any land but my own.”—“ Sir,” said 
Adams, “ you can indulge yourself with many fine prospects 
of that kind.”—“ I thank God I have a little,” replied the 
other, “ with which I am content, and envy no man: I have 
a little, Mr Adams, with which I do as much good as I can.” 
Adams answered, that riches without charity were nothing 
worth; for that they were a blessing only to him who made 
them a blessing to others.—“ You and I,” said Peter, “ have 
different notions of charity. I own, as it is generally used, 
I do not like the word, nor do I think it becomes one of us 
gentlemen; it is a mean parson-like quality; though I would 
not infer many parsons have it neither.”—“ Sir,” said Adams, 
“ my definition of charity is, a generous disposition to relieve 
the distressed.”—“ There is something in that definition,” an¬ 
swered Peter, “ which I like well enough; it is, as you say, a 
disposition, and does not so much consist in the act as in the 
disposition to do it. But alas! Mr Adams, who are meant 
by the distressed? Believe me, the distresses of mankind 
are mostly imaginary, and it would be rather folly than good- 

248 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 

ness to relieve them.”—“ Sure, sir,” replied Adams, “ hunger 
and thirst, cold and nakedness, and other distresses which 
attend the poor, can never be said to be imaginary evils.”— 
“ How can any man complain of hunger,” said Peter, “ in a 
country where such excellent salads are to be gathered in 
almost every field ? or of thirst, where every river and stream 
produce such delicious potations ? And as for cold and naked¬ 
ness, they are evils introduced by luxury and custom. A man 
naturally wants clothes no more than a horse or any other 
animal; and there are whole nations who go without them; 
but these are things perhaps which you, who do not know 
the world ”—“ You will pardon me, sir,” returned Adams; 
“ I have read of the Gymnosophists.”—“ A plague of your 
Jehosaphats! ” cried Peter; “the greatest fault in our consti¬ 
tution is the provision made for the poor, except that perhaps 
made for some others. Sir, I have not an estate which doth 
not contribute almost as much again to the poor as to the 
land-tax; and I do assure you I expect to come myself to the 
parish in the end.” To which Adams giving a dissenting 
smile, Peter thus proceeded: “ I fancy, Mr Adams, you are 
one of those who imagine I am a lump of money; for there 
are many who, I fancy, believe that not only my pockets, but 
my whole clothes, are lined with bank-bills; but I assure 
you, you are all mistaken; I am not the man the world esteems 
me. If I can hold my head above water it is all I can. I 
have injured myself by purchasing. I have been too liberal 
of my money. Indeed, I fear my heir will find my affairs in a 
worse situation than they are reputed to be. Ah! he will have 
reason to wish I had loved money more and land less. Pray, 
my good neighbour, where should I have that quantity of 
riches the world is so liberal to bestow on me ? Where could 
I possibly, without I had stole it, acquire such a treasure ? ” 
“ Why truly,” says Adams, “ I have been always of your opin¬ 
ion; I have wondered as well as yourself with what confi¬ 
dence they could report such things of you, which have to 
me appeared as mere impossibilities; for you know, sir, and I 
have often heard you say it, that your wealth is of your own 
acquisition; and can it be credible that in your short time you 
should have amassed such a heap of treasure as these people 
will have you worth? Indeed, had you inherited an estate 

249 




TliE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS 

like Sir Thomas Booby, which had descended in your family 
for many generations, they might have had a colour for their 
assertions.” “ Why, what do they say I am worth ? ” cries 
Peter with a malicious sneer. “ Sir,” answered Adams, “ I 
have heard some aver you are not worth less than twenty 
thousand pounds.” At which Peter frowned. “ Nay, sir,” 
said Adams, “ you ask me only the opinion of others; for my 
own part, I have always denied it, nor did I ever believe you 
could possibly be worth half that sum.” “ However, Mr 
Adams,” said he, squeezing him by the hand, “ I would not 
sell them all I am worth for double that sum; and as to what 
you believe, or they believe, I care not a fig, no not a fart. 
I am not poor because you think me so, nor because you 
attempt to undervalue me in the country. I know the envy of 
mankind very well; but I thank Heaven I am above them. 
It is true, my wealth is of my own acquisition. I have not 
an estate, like Sir Thomas Booby, that has descended in my 
family through many generations; but I know heirs of such 
estates who are forced to travel about the country like some 
people in torn cassocks, and might be glad to accept of a 
pitiful curacy for what I know. Yes, sir, as shabby fellows 
as yourself, whom no man of my figure, without that vice 
of good-nature about him, would suffer to ride in a chariot 
with him.” “ Sir,” said Adams, “ I value not your chariot of 
a rush; and if I had known you had intended to affront me, 
I would have walked to the world’s end on foot ere I would 
have accepted a place in it. However, sir, I will soon rid you 
of that inconvenience; ” and, so saying, he opened the chariot 
door, without calling to the coachman, and leapt out into the 
highway, forgetting to take his hat along with him; which, 
however, Mr Pounce threw after him with great violence. 
Joseph and Fanny stopped to bear him company the rest of 
the way, which was not above a mile. 


250 


BOOK IV. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE ARRIVAL OF LADY BOOBY AND THE REST AT BOOBY-HALL. 

T HE coach and six, in which Lady Booby rode, overtook 
the other travellers as they entered the parish. She no 
sooner saw Joseph than her cheeks glowed with red, and imme¬ 
diately after became as totally pale. She had in her surprize 
almost stopt her coach; but recollected herself timely enough 
to prevent it. She entered the parish amidst the ringing of 
bells and the acclamations of the poor, who were rejoiced to 
see their patroness returned after so long an absence, dur¬ 
ing which time all her rents had been drafted to London, with¬ 
out a shilling being spent among them, which tended not 
a little to their utter impoverishing; for, if the court would be 
severely missed in such a city as London, how much more 
must the absence of a person of great fortune be felt in a 
little country village, for whose inhabitants such a family finds 
a constant employment and supply; and with the offals of 
whose table the infirm, aged, and infant poor are abundantly 
fed, with a generosity which hath scarce a visible effect on 
their benefactor’s pockets! 

But, if their interest inspired so public a joy into every 
countenance, how much more forcibly did the affection which 
they bore parson Adams operate upon all who beheld his re¬ 
turn ! They flocked about him like dutiful children round 
an indulgent parent, and vied with each other in demonstra¬ 
tions of duty and love. The parson on his side shook every 
one by the hand, inquiring heartily after the healths of all 
that were absent, of their children and relations; and exprest 
a satisfaction in his face which nothing but benevolence made 
happy by its objects could infuse. 

Nor did Joseph and Fanny want a hearty welcome from 
25 1 




THE ADVENTURES OF 


/ 


all who saw them. In short, no three persons could be more 
kindly received, as, indeed, none ever more deserved to be 
universally beloved. 

Adams carried his fellow-travellers home to his house, where 
he insisted on their partaking whatever his wife, whom, with 
'his children, he found in health and joy, could provide:— 
where we shall leave them enjoying perfect happiness over 
a homely meal, to view scenes of greater splendour, but in¬ 
finitely less bliss. 

Our more intelligent readers will doubtless suspect, by this 
second appearance of Lady Booby on the stage, that all was 
not ended by the dismission of Joseph; and, to be honest 
with them, they are in the right: the arrow had pierced deeper 
than she imagined; nor was the wound so easily to be cured. 
The removal of the object soon cooled her rage, but it had a 
different effect on her love; that departed with his person, but 
this remained lurking in her mind with his image. Restless, 
interrupted slumbers, and confused horrible dreams were her 
portion the first night. In the morning, fancy painted her 
a more delicious scene; but to delude, not delight her; for, 
before she could reach the promised happiness, it vanished, 
and left her to curse, not bless, the vision. 

She started from her sleep, her imagination being all on 
fire with the phantom, when, her eyes accidentally glancing 
towards the spot where yesterday the real Joseph had stood, 
that little circumstance raised his idea in the liveliest colours 
in her memory. Each look, each word, each gesture rushed 
back on her mind with charms which all his coldness could 
not abate. Nay, she imputed that to his youth, his folly, 
his awe, his religion, to everything but what would instantly 
have produced contempt, want of passion for the sex, or that 
which would have roused her hatred, want of liking to her. 

Reflection then hurried her farther, and told her she must 
see this beautiful youth no more; nay, suggested to her that 
she herself had dismissed him for no other fault than proba¬ 
bly that of too violent an awe and respect for herself; and 
which she ought rather to have esteemed a merit, the effects 
of which were besides so easily and surely to have been re¬ 
moved ; she then blamed, she cursed the hasty rashness of her 
temper; her fury was vented all on herself, and Joseph ap- 

252 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

peared innocent in her eyes. Her passion at length grev, so 
violent, that it forced her on seeking relief, and now she 
thought of recalling him: but pride forbad that; pride, which 
soon drove all softer passions from her soul, and represented 
to her the meanness of him she was fond of. That thought 
soon began to obscure his beauties; contempt succeeded next, 
and then disdain, which presently introduced her hatred of the 
creature who had given her so much uneasiness. These ene¬ 
mies of Joseph had no sooner taken possession of her mind 
than they insinuated to her a thousand things in his disfavour; 
everything but dislike of her person; a thought which, as it 
would have been intolerable to bear, she checked the moment 
it endeavoured to arise. Revenge came now to her assistance; 
and she considered her dismission of him, stript, and without 
a character, with the utmost pleasure. She rioted in the sev¬ 
eral kinds of misery which her imagination suggested to her 
might be his fate; and, with a smile composed of anger, mirth, 
and scorn, viewed him in the rags in which her fancy had 
drest him. 

Mrs Slipslop, being summoned, attended her mistress, who 
had now in her own opinion totally subdued this passion. 
Whilst she was dressing she asked if that fellow had been 
turned away according to her orders. Slipslop answered, 
she had told her ladyship so (as indeed she had).—“And 
how did he behave?” replied the lady. “Truly, madam,” 
cries Slipslop, “ in such a manner that infected everybody 
who saw him. The poor lad had but little wages to receive; 
for he constantly allowed his father and mother half his in¬ 
come; so that, when your ladyship’s livery was stript off, he 
had not wherewithal to buy a coat, and must have gone naked 
if one of the footmen had not incommodated him with one; 
and whilst he was standing in his shirt (and, to say truth, 
he was an amorous figure), being told your ladyship would 
not give him a character, he sighed, and said he had done 
nothing willingly to offend; that, for his part, he should 
always give your ladyship a good character wherever he 
went; and he prayed God to bless you; for you was the 
best of ladies, though his enemies had set you against him. 
I wish you had not turned him away; for I believe you have 
not a faithfuller servant in the house.”—“ How came you 

253 


/ 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


then,” replied the lady, “ to advise me to turn him away ? ” 
—“ I, madam! ” said Slipslop; “I am sure you will do me 
the justice to say, I did all in my power to prevent it; but 
I saw your ladyship was angry; and it is not the business 
of us upper servants to hint or fear on these occasions.” 
“ And was it not you, audacious wretch! ” cried the lady, 
“ who made me angry? Was it not your tittle-tattle, in which 
I believe you belied the poor fellow, which incensed me against 
him ? He may thank you for all that hath happened; and so 
may I for the loss of a good servant, and one who probably 
had more merit than all of you. Poor fellow! I am charmed 
with his goodness to his parents. Why did not you tell me of 
that, but suffer me to dismiss so good a creature without a 
character? I see the reason of your whole behaviour now 
as well as your complaint; you was jealous of the wenches.” 
“ I jealous!” said Slipslop; “I assure you, I look upon my¬ 
self as his betters; I am not meat for a footman, I hope.” 
These words threw the lady into a violent passion, and she 
sent Slipslop from her presence, who departed, tossing her 
nose, and crying, “ Marry, come up! there are some people 
more jealous than I, I believe.” Her lady affected not to 
hear the words, though in reality she did, and understood 
them too. Now ensued a second conflict, so like the former, 
that it might savour of repetition to relate it minutely. It 
may suffice to say that Lady Booby found good reason to 
doubt whether she had so absolutely conquered her passion 
as she had flattered herself; and, in order to accomplish it 
quite, took a resolution, more common than wise, to retire 
immediately into the country. The reader hath long ago seen 
the arrival of Mrs Slipslop, whom no pertness could make 
her mistress resolve to part with; lately, that of Mr Pounce, 
her forerunners; and, lastly, that of the lady herself. 

The morning after her arrival being Sunday, she went to 
church, to the great surprise of everybody, who wondered to 
see her ladyship, being no very constant church-woman, there 
so suddenly upon her journey. Joseph was likewise there; 
and I have heard it was remarked that she fixed her eyes 
on him much more than on the parson; but this I believed 
to be only a malicious rumour. When the prayers were ended 
Mr Adams stood up, and with a loud voice pronounced, “ 1 

254 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


publish the banns of marriage between Joseph Andrews 
and Frances Goodwill, both of this parish/’ &c. Whether 
this had any effect on Lady Booby or no, who was then in 
her pew, which the congregation could not see into, I could 
never discover: but certain it is, that in about a quarter of an 
hour she stood up, and directed her eyes to that part of the 
church where the women sat, and persisted in looking that 
way during the remainder of the sermon in so scrutinizing 
a manner, and with so angry a countenance, that most of the 
women were afraid she was offended at them. The moment 
she returned home she sent for Slipslop into her chamber, 
and told her she wondered what that impudent fellow Joseph 
did in that parish ? Upon which Slipslop gave her an account 
of her meeting Adams with him on the road, and likewise the 
adventure with Fanny. At the relation of which the lady 
often changed her countenance; and when she had heard all, 
she ordered Mr Adams into her presence, to whom she be¬ 
haved as the reader will see in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER II. 

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MR ABRAHAM ADAMS AND LADY BOOBY. 

M R ADAMS was not far off, for he was drinking her 
ladyship’s health below in a cup of her ale. He no 
sooner came before her than she began in the following man¬ 
ner : “ I wonder, sir, after the many great obligations you 

have had to this family ” (with all which the reader hath in 
the course of this history been minutely acquainted), “that 
you will ungratefully show any respect to a fellow who hath 
been turned out of it for his misdeeds. Nor doth it, I can 
tell you, sir, become a man of your character, to run about 
the country with an idle fellow and wench. Indeed, as for 
the girl, I know no harm of her. Slipslop tells me she was 
formerly bred up in my house, and behaved as she ought, till 
she hankered after this fellow, and he spoiled her. Nay, she 
may still, perhaps, do very well, if he will let her alone. 
You are, therefore, doing a monstrous thing in endeavouring 

255 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


to procure a match between these two people, which will be 
the ruin of them both.”—“ Madam,” said Adams, “ if your 
ladyship will but hear me speak, I protest I never heard any 
harm of Mr Joseph Andrews; if I had, I should have cor¬ 
rected him for it; for I never have, nor will, encourage the 
faults of those under my cure. As for the young woman, I 
assure your ladyship I have as good an opinion of her as 
your ladyship yourself or any other can have. She is the 
sweetest-tempered, honestest, worthiest young creature; in¬ 
deed, as to her beauty, I do not commend her on that account, 
though all men allow she is the handsomest woman, gentle or 
simple, that ever appeared in the parish.”—“ You are very im¬ 
pertinent,” says she, “ to talk such fulsome stuff to me. It is 
mighty becoming truly in a clergyman to trouble himself about 
handsome women, and you are a delicate judge of beauty, 
no doubt. A man who hath lived all his life in such a parish 
as this is a rare judge of beauty! Ridiculous! beauty indeed! 
a country wench a beauty! I shall be sick whenever I hear 
beauty mentioned again. And so this wench is to stock the 
parish with beauties, I hope. But, sir, our poor are numerous 
enough already; I will have no more vagabonds settled here.” 
—“ Madam,” says Adams, “ your ladyship is offended with 
me, I protest, without any reason. This couple were de¬ 
sirous to consummate long ago, and I dissuaded them from 
it; nay, I may venture to say, I believe I was the sole cause 
of their delaying it.”—“ Well,” says she, “ and you did very 
wisely and honestly too, notwithstanding she is the greatest 
beauty in the parish.”—“ And now, madam,” continued he, 
“ I only perform my office to Mr Joseph.”—“ Pray, don’t 
mister such fellows to me,” cries the lady.—“ He,” said the 
parson, “ with the consent of Fanny, before my face, put in 
the banns.”—“ Yes,” answered the lady, “ I suppose the slut 
is forward enough; Slipslop tells me how her head runs on 
fellows; that is one of her beauties, I suppose. But if they 
have put in the banns, I desire you will publish them no 
more without my orders.”—“ Madam,” cries Adams, “ if any 
one puts in a sufficient caution, and assigns a proper reason 
against them, I am willing to surcease.”—“ I tell you a rea¬ 
son,” says she: “ he is a vagabond, and he shall not settle here, 
and bring a nest of beggars into the parish; it will make us 

256 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


but little amends that they will be beauties.”—“ Madam,” 
answered Adams, “ with the utmost submission to your lady¬ 
ship, I have been informed by Lawyer Scout that any person 
who serves a year gains a settlement in the parish where he 
serves.”—“ Lawyer Scout,” replied the lady, “ is an impu¬ 
dent coxcomb; I will have no Lawyer Scout interfere with 
me. I repeat to you again, I will have no more incumbrances 
brought on us: so I desire you will proceed no farther.”— 
“ Madam,” returned Adams, “ I would obey your ladyship in 
everything that is lawful; but surely the parties being poor 
is no reason against their marrying. God forbid there should 
be any such law! The poor have little share enough of this 
world already; it would be barbarous indeed to deny them 
the common privileges and innocent enjoyments which nature 
indulges to the animal creation.”—“ Since you understand 
yourself no better,” cries the lady, “ nor the respect due from 
such as you to a woman of my distinction, than to affront my 
ears by such loose discourse, I shall mention but one short 
word; it is my orders to you that you publish these banns no 
more; and if you dare, I will recommend it to your master, 
the doctor, to discard you from his service. I will, sir, not¬ 
withstanding your poor family; and then you and the greatest 
beauty in the parish may go and beg together.”—“ Madam,” 
answered Adams, “ I know not what your ladyship means 
by the terms master and service. I am in the service of a 
Master who will never discard me for doing my duty; and if 
the doctor (for indeed I have never been able to pay for a 
licence) thinks proper to turn me from my cure, God will pro¬ 
vide me, I hope, another. At least, my family, as well as 
myself, have hands; and he will prosper, I doubt not, our 
endeavours to get our bread honestly with them. Whilst my 
conscience is pure, I shall never fear what man can do unto 
me.”—“ I condemn my humility,” said the lady, “ for de¬ 
meaning myself to converse with you so long. I shall take 
other measures; for I see you are a confederate with them. 
But the sooner you leave me the better; and I shall give orders 
that my doors may no longer be open to you. I will suffer no 
parsons who run about the country with beauties to be enter¬ 
tained here.”—“ Madam,” said Adams, “ I shall enter into no 
persons’ doors against their will; but I am assured, when you 
17 257 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


have inquired farther into this matter, you will applaud, not 
blame, my proceeding; and so I humbly take my leave: ” 
which he did with many bows, or at least many attempts at 
a bow. 


CHAPTER III. 

WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE LADY AND LAWYER SCOUT. 

I N the afternoon the lady sent for Mr Scout, whom she 
attacked most violently for intermeddling with her ser¬ 
vants, which he denied, and indeed with truth, for he had 
only asserted accidentally, and perhaps rightly, that a year’s 
service gained a settlement; and so far he owned he might 
have formerly informed the parson and believed it was law. 
“ I am resolved,” said the lady, “ to have no discarded ser¬ 
vants of mine settled here; and so, if this be your law, I shall 
send to another lawyer.” Scout said, “ if she sent to a hun¬ 
dred lawyers, not one or all of them could alter the law. The 
utmost that was in the power of a lawyer was to prevent 
the law’s taking effect; and that he himself could do for her 
ladyship as well as any other; and I believe,” says he, “ ma¬ 
dam, your ladyship, not being conversant in these matters, 
hath mistaken a difference; for I asserted only that a man who 
served a year was settled. Now there is a material differ¬ 
ence between being settled in law and settled in fact; and 
as I affirmed generally he was settled, and law is preferable 
to fact, my settlement must be understood in law and not 
in fact. And suppose, madam, we admit he was settled in 
law, what use will they make of it? how doth that relate to 
fact ? He is not settled in fact; and if he be not settled in fact, 
he is not an inhabitant; and if he is not an inhabitant, he is not 
of this parish; and then undoubtedly he ought not to be 
published here; for Mr Adams hath told me your ladyship’s 
pleasure, and the reason, which is a very good one, to pre¬ 
vent burdening us with the poor; we have too many already, 
and I think we ought to have an act to hang or transport half 
of them. If we can prove in evidence that he is not settled 
in fact, it is another matter. What I said to Mr Adams was 

258 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 

on a supposition that he was settled in fact; and indeed, if 
that was the case, I should doubt.”—“ Don’t tell me your 
facts and your ifs,” said the lady; “ I don’t understand your 
gibberish; you take too much upon you, and are very imper¬ 
tinent, in pretending to direct in this parish; and you shall be 
taught better, I assure you, you shall. But as to the wench, 
I am resolved she shall not settle here; I will not suffer such 
beauties as these to produce children for us to keep.”—“ Beau¬ 
ties, indeed! your ladyship is pleased to be merry,” answered 
Scout.—“ Mr Adams described her so to me,” said the lady. 
“ Pray, what sort of dowdy is it, Mr Scout ? ”—“ The ugliest 
creature almost I ever beheld; a poor dirty drab; your lady¬ 
ship never saw such a wretch.”—“ Well, but, dear Mr Scout, 
let her be what she will, these ugly women will bring children, 
you know; so that we must prevent the marriage.”—“ True, 
madam,” replied Scout, “ for the subsequent marriage co-oper¬ 
ating with the law will carry law into fact. When a man is 
married he is settled in fact, and then he is not removable. 
I will see Mr Adams, and I make no doubt of prevailing with 
him. His only objection is, doubtless, that he shall lose his 
fee; but that being once made easy, as it shall be, I am con¬ 
fident no farther objection will remain. No, no, it is impos¬ 
sible; but your ladyship can’t discommend his unwillingness 
to depart from his fee. Every man ought to have a proper 
value for his fee. As to the matter in question, if your lady¬ 
ship pleases to employ me in it, I will venture to promise you 
success. The laws of this land are not so vulgar to permit 
a mean fellow to contend with one of your ladyship’s fortune. 
We have one sure card, which is, to carry him before Justice 
Frolick, who, upon hearing your ladyship’s name, will com¬ 
mit him without any farther questions. As for the dirty 
slut, we shall have nothing to do with her; for, if we get 
rid of the fellow, the ugly jade will——“ Take what measures 
you please, good Mr Scout,” answered the lady: “ but I wish 
you could rid the parish of both; for Slipslop tells me such 
stories of this wench, that I abhor the thoughts of her; and, 
though you say she is such an ugly slut, yet you know, dear 
Mr Scout, these forward creatures, who run after men, will 
always find some as forward as themselves; so that, to prevent 
the increase of beggars, we must get rid of her.”—“Tour 

2 59 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


ladyship is very much in the right,” answered Scout; “ but 
I am afraid the law is a little deficient in giving us any such 
power of prevention; however, the justice will stretch it as far 
as he is able, to oblige your ladyship. To say truth, it is a 
great blessing to the country that he is in the commission, 
for he hath taken several poor off our hands that the law 
would never lay hold on. I know some justices who make 
as much of committing a man to Bridewell as his lordship 
at ’size would of hanging him; but it would do a man good 
to see his worship, our justice, commit a fellow to Bridewell, 
he takes so much pleasure in it; and when once we ha’un 
there, we seldom hear any more o’un. He’s either starved or 
eat up by vermin in a month’s time.”—Here the arrival of 
a visitor put an end to the conversation, and Mr Scout, having 
undertaken the cause and promised it success, departed. 

This Scout was one of those fellows who, without any 
knowledge of the law, or being bred to it, take upon them, 
in defiance of an act of parliament, to act as lawyers in the 
country, and are called so. They are the pests of society, 
and a scandal to a profession, to which indeed they do not 
belong, and which owes to such kind of rascallions the ill- 
will which weak persons bear towards it. With this fellow, 
to whom a little before she would not have condescended to 
have spoken, did a certain passion for Joseph, and the jeal¬ 
ousy and the disdain of poor innocent Fanny, betray the Lady 
Booby into a familiar discourse, in which she inadvertently 
confirmed many hints with which Slipslop, whose gallant 
he was, had pre-acquainted him; and whence he had taken 
an opportunity to assert those severe falsehoods of little Fanny 
which possibly the reader might not have been well able to 
account for if we had not thought proper to give him this in¬ 
formation. 


260 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


CHAPTER IV. 

A SHORT CHAPTER, BUT VERY FULL OF MATTER ; PARTICULARLY 
THE ARRIVAL OF MR BOOBY AND HIS LADY. 

ALL that night, and the next day, the Lady Booby passed 
with the utmost anxiety; her mind was distracted and 
her soul tossed up and down by many turbulent and opposite 
passions. She loved, hated, pitied, scorned, admired, despised 
the same person by fits, which changed in a very short in¬ 
terval. On Tuesday morning, which happened to be a holi¬ 
day, she went to church, where, to her surprize, Mr Adams 
published the banns again with as audible a voice as before. 
It was lucky for her that, as there was no sermon, she had 
an immediate opportunity of returning home to vent her rage, 
which she could not have concealed from the congregation 
five minutes; indeed, it was not then very numerous, the as¬ 
sembly consisting of no more than Adams, his clerk, his wife, 
the lady, and one of her servants. At her return she met 
Slipslop, who accosted her in these words:—“ O meam,.what 
doth your ladyship think? To be sure, lawyer Scout hath 
carried Joseph and Fanny both before the justice. All the 
parish are in tears, and say they will certainly be hanged; for 
nobody knows what it is for.” “ I suppose they deserve it,” 
says the lady. “ What dost thou mention such wretches to 
me ? ”—“ O dear madam,” answered Slipslop, “ is it not a 
pity such a graceless young man should die a virulent death ? 
I hope the judge will take commensuration on his youth. 
As for Fanny, I don’t think it signifies much what becomes 
of her; and if poor Joseph hath done anything, I could ven¬ 
ture to swear she traduced him to it: few men ever come to 
a fragrant punishment, but by those nasty creatures, who are 
a scandal to our sect.” The lady was no more pleased at this 
news, after a moment’s reflection, than Slipslop herself; for, 
though she wished Fanny far enough, she did not desire the 
removal of Joseph, especially with her. She was puzzled 
how to act or what to say on this occasion, when a coach and 
six drove into the court, and a servant acquainted her with 

261 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


the arrival of her nephew Booby and his lady. She ordered 
them to be conducted into a drawing-room, whither she pres¬ 
ently repaired, having composed her countenance as well as 
she could, and being a little satisfied that the wedding would 
by these means be at least interrupted, and that she should 
have an opportunity to execute any resolution she might take, 
for which she saw herself provided with an excellent instru¬ 
ment in Scout. 

The Lady Booby apprehended her servant had made a mis¬ 
take when he mentioned Mr Booby’s lady; for she had never 
heard of his marriage: but how great was her surprize when, 
at her entering the room, her nephew presented his wife to 
her! saying, “ Madapi, this is that charming Pamela, of whom 
I am convinced you have heard so much.” The lady received 
her with more civility than he expected; indeed with the ut¬ 
most; for she was perfectly polite, nor had any vice incon¬ 
sistent with good-breeding. They passed some little time 
in ordinary discourse, when a servant came and whispered 
Mr Booby, who presently told the ladies he must desert them 
a little on some business of consequence; and, as their dis¬ 
course during his absence would afford little improvement 
or eiftertainment to the reader, we will leave them for a while 
to attend Mr. Booby. 


CHAPTER V. 

CONTAINING JUSTICE BUSINESS; CURIOUS PRECEDENTS OF 
DEPOSITIONS, AND OTHER MATTERS NECESSARY TO BE PE¬ 
RUSED BY ALL JUSTICES OF THE PEACE AND THEIR CLERKS. 

T HE young squire and his lady were no sooner alighted 
from their coach than the servants began to inquire 
after Mr Joseph, from whom they said their lady had not 
heard a word, to her great surprize, since he had left Lady 
Booby’s. Upon this they were instantly informed of what 
had lately happened, with which they hastily acquainted their 
master, who took an immediate resolution to go himself, and 

262 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


endeavour to restore his Pamela her brother, before she even 
knew she had lost him. 

The justice before whom the criminals were carried, and 
who lived within a short mile of the lady’s house, was luckily 
Mr Booby’s acquaintance, by his having an estate in his 
neighbourhood. Ordering therefore his horses to his coach, 
he set out for the judgment-seat, and arrived when the jus¬ 
tice had almost finished his business. He was conducted 
into a hall, where he was acquainted that his worship would 
wait on him in a moment; for he had only a man and a wo¬ 
man to commit to bridewell first. As he was now convinced 
he had not a minute to lose, he insisted on the servant’s in¬ 
troducing him directly into the room where the justice was 
then executing his office, as he called it. Being brought 
thither, and the first compliments being passed between the 
squire and his worship, the former asked the latter what 
crime those two young people had been guilty of? “No 
great crime,” answered the justice; “I have only ordered 
them to bridewell for a month.” “ But what is their crime? ” 
repeated the squire. “ Larceny, an’t please your honour,” 
said Scout. “ Aye,” says the justice, “ a kind of felonious 
larcenous thing. I believe I must order them a little correc¬ 
tion too, a little stripping and whipping.” (Poor Fanny, 
who had hitherto supported all with the thoughts of Joseph’s 
company, trembled at that sound; but, indeed, without reason, 
for none but the devil himself would have executed such a 
sentence on her.) “ Still,” said the squire, “ I am ignorant 
of the crime—the fact I mean.” “ Why, there it is in peaper,” 
answered the justice, showing him a deposition which, in the 
absence of his clerk, he had writ himself, of which we have 
with great difficulty procured an authentic copy; and here 
it follows verbatim et literatim :— 

The depusition of James Scout, layer, and Thomas Trotter, 

yeoman, taken before mee, one of his magesty’s justasses 

of the piece for Zumersetshire. 

“ These deponants saith, and first Thomas Trotter for 
himself saith that on the of this instant October, being Sab¬ 
bath-day, betwin the ours of 2 and 4 in the afternoon, he 

263 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


zeed Joseph Andrews and Francis Goodwill walk akross a' 
certane felde belunging to layer Scout, and out of the path 
which ledes thru the said felde, and there he zede Joseph An¬ 
drews with a nife cut one hassel twig, of the value, as he 
believes, of three half-pence, or thereabouts; and he saith that 
the said Francis Goodwill was likewise walking on the grass 
out of the said path in the said felde, and did receive and 
karry in her hand the said twig, and so was cumfarting, 
eading, and abatting to the said Joseph therein. And the said 
James Scout for himself says that he verily believes the said 
twig to be his own proper twig,” &c. 

“ Jesu! ” said the squire, “ would you commit two persons 
to bridewell for a twig? ” “ Yes,” said the lawyer, “ and with 
great lenity too; for if he had called it a young tree, they 
would have been both hanged.” “ Harkee,” says the justice, 
taking aside the squire^ “ I should not have been so severe 
on this occasion, but Lady Booby desires to get them out of 
the parish; so lawyer Scout will give the constable orders to 
let them run away, if they please: but it seems they intend 
to marry together, and the lady hath no other means, as they 
are legally settled there, to prevent their bringing an incum¬ 
brance on her own parish.” “ Well,” said the squire, “ I will 
take care my aunt shall be satisfied in this point; and likewise I 
promise you, Joseph here shall never be any incumbrance on 
her. I shall be obliged to you, therefore, if, instead of bride¬ 
well, you will commit them to my custody.” “ O! to be sure, 
sir, if you desire it,” answered the justice; and without more 
ado Joseph and Fanny were delivered over to Squire Booby, 
whom Joseph very well knew, but little guessed how nearly 
he was related to him. The justice burnt his mittimus, the 
constable was sent about his business, the lawyer made no 
complaint for want of justice; and the prisoners, with exult¬ 
ing hearts, gave a thousand thanks to his honour Mr Booby; 
who did not intend their obligations to him should cease 
there; for, ordering his man to produce a cloak-bag, which 
he had caused to be brought from Lady Booby’s on purpose, 
he desired the justice that he might have Joseph with him 
into a room; where, ordering his servant to take out a suit 

264 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


of his own clothes, with linen and other necessaries, he left 
Joseph to dress himself, who, not yet knowing the cause of 
all this civility, excused his accepting such a favour as long 
as decently he could. Whilst Joseph was dressing, the squire 
repaired to the justice, whom he found talking with Fanny; 
for, during the examination, she had looped her hat over her 
eyes, which were also bathed in tears, and had by that means 
concealed from his worship what might perhaps have ren¬ 
dered the arrival of Mr Booby unnecessary, at least for her¬ 
self. The justice no sooner saw her countenance cleared up, 
and her bright eyes shining through her tears, than he secretly 
cursed himself for having once thought of bridewell for her. 
He would willingly have sent his own wife thither, to have 
had Fanny in hefvplace. And, conceiving almost at the same 
instant desires and schemes to accomplish them, he employed 
the minutes whilst the squire was absent with Joseph in as¬ 
suring her how sorry he was for having treated her so 
roughly before he knew her merit; and told her, that since 
Lady Booby was unwilling that she should settle in her par¬ 
ish, she was .heartily welcome to his, where he promised her 
his protection, adding that he would take Joseph and her into 
his own family, if she liked it; which assurance he confirmed 
with a squeeze by the hand. She thanked him very kindly, 
and said, she would acquaint Joseph with the offer, which he 
would certainly be glad to accept; for that Lady Booby was 
angry with them both; though she did not know either had 
done anything to offend her, but imputed it to Madam Slip¬ 
slop, who had always been her enemy. 

The squire now returned, and prevented any farther con¬ 
tinuance of this conversation; and the justice, out of a pre¬ 
tended respect to his guest, but in reality from an apprehen¬ 
sion of a rival (for he knew nothing of his marriage), ordered 
Fanny into the kitchen, whither she gladly retired; nor did the 
squire, who declined the trouble of explaining the whole mat¬ 
ter, oppose it. 

It would be unnecessary, if I was able, which indeed I am 
not, to relate the conversation between these two gentlemen, 
which rolled, as I have been informed, entirely on the sub¬ 
ject of horse-racing. Joseph was soon drest in the plainest 

265 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


dress he could find, which was a blue coat and breeches, with 
a gold edging, and a red waistcoat with the same: and as this 
suit, which was rather too large for the squire, exactly fitted 
him, so he became it so well, and looked so genteel, that no 
person would have doubted its being as well adapted to his 
quality as his shape; nor have suspected, as one might, when 
my Lord-, or Sir-, or Mr-, appear in lace or em¬ 

broidery, that the tailor's man wore those clothes home on his 
back which he should have carried under his arm. 

The squire now took leave of the justice; and, calling for 
Fanny, made her and Joseph, against their wills, get into 
the coach with him, which he theti ordered to drive to Lady 
Booby’s. It had moved a few yards only, when the squire 
asked Joseph if he knew who that man was crossing the field; 
for, added he, “ I never saw one take such strides before.” 
Joseph answered eagerly, “ O, sir, it is parson Adams! ” 
“ O la, indeed, and so it is,” said Fanny; “ poor man, he is 
coming to do what he could for us. Well, he is the worthiest, 
best-natured creature.”—“ Aye,” said Joseph; “ God bless 
him! for there is not such another in the universe.” “ The 
best creature living sure,” cries Fanny. “Is he?” says the 
squire; “ then I am resolved to have the best creature living 
in my coach; ” and so saying, he ordered it to stop, whilst 
Joseph, at his request, hallowed to the parson, who, well 
knowing his voice, made all the haste imaginable, and soon 
came up with them. He was desired by the master, who 
could scarce refrain from laughter at his figure, to mount into 
the coach, which he with many thanks refused, saying he 
could walk by its side, and he’d warrant he kept up with it; 
but he was at length over-prevailed on. The squire now ac¬ 
quainted Joseph with his marriage; but he might have spared 
himself that labour; for his servant, whilst Joseph was dress¬ 
ing, had performed that office before. He continued to ex¬ 
press the vast happiness he enjoyed in his sister, and the 
value he had for all who belonged to her. Joseph made many 
bows, and exprest as many acknowledgments: and parson 
Adams, who now first perceived Joseph’s new apparel, burst 
into tears with joy, and fell to rubbing his hands and snap¬ 
ping his fingers as if he had been mad. 

266 





JOSEPH ANDREWS 


They were now arrived at the Lady Booby’s, and the 
squire, desiring, them to wait a moment in the court, walked 
in to his aunt, and, calling her out from his wife, acquainted 
her with Joseph’s arrival; saying, “ Madam, as I have mar¬ 
ried a virtuous and worthy woman, I am resolved to own 
her relations, and show them all a proper respect; I shall 
think myself therefore infinitely obliged to all mine who will 
do the same. It is true, her brother hath been your servant, 
but he is now become my brother; and I have one happiness, 
that neither his character, his behaviour, or appearance, give 
me any reason to be ashamed of calling him so. In short, 
he is now below, dressed like a gentleman, in which light I 
intend he shall hereafter be seen; and you will oblige me be¬ 
yond expression if you will admit him to be of our party; for 
I know it will give great pleasure to my wife, though she 
will not mention it.” 

This was a stroke of fortune beyond the Lady Booby’s 
hopes or expectation; she answered him eagerly, “Nephew, 
you know how easily I am prevailed on to do anything which 
Joseph Andrews desires—Phoo, I mean which you desire 
me; and, as he is now your relation, I cannot refuse to enter¬ 
tain him as such.” The squire told her he knew his obliga¬ 
tion to her for her compliance; and going three steps, re¬ 
turned and told her—he had one more favour, which he 
believed she would easily grant, as she had accorded him the 
former. “ There is a young woman—”—“ Nephew,” says she, 
“ don’t let my good-nature make you desire, as is too com¬ 
monly the case, to impose on me. Nor think, because I have 
with so much condescension agreed to suffer your brother- 
in-law to come to my table, that I will submit to the company 
of all my own servants, and all the dirty trollops in the coun¬ 
try.” “ Madam,” answered the squire, “ I believe you never 
saw this young creature. I never beheld such sweetness and 
innocence joined with such beauty, and withal so genteel.” 
“ Upon my soul I won’t admit her,” replied the lady in a pas¬ 
sion ; “ the whole world shan’t prevail on me; I resent even 

the desire as an affront, and ”-The squire, who knew 

her inflexibility, interrupted her, by asking pardon, and 
promising not to mention it more. He then returned to Jo- 

267 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


seph, and she to Pamela. He took Joseph aside, and told him 
he would carry him to his sister, but could not prevail as yet 
for Fanny. Joseph begged that he might see his sister alone, 
and then be with his Fanny; but the squire, knowing the plea¬ 
sure his wife would have in her brother’s company, would not 
admit it, telling Joseph there would be nothing in so short 
an absence from Fanny, whilst he was assured of her safety; 
adding he hoped he could not so easily quit a sister whom he 
had not seen so long, and who so tenderly loved him. Joseph 
immediately complied; for indeed no brother could love a 
sister more; and, recommending Fanny, who rejoiced that 
she was not to go before Lady • Booby, to the care of Mr 
Adams, he attended the squire up-stairs, whilst Fanny re¬ 
paired with the parson to his house, where she thought herself 
secure of a kind reception. 


CHAPTER VI. 


OF WHICH YOU ARE DESIRED TO READ NO MORE THAN 
YOU LIKE. 

HE meeting between Joseph and Pamela was not with- 



1 out tears of joy on both sides; and their embraces were 
full of tenderness and affection. They were, however, re¬ 
garded with much more pleasure by the nephew than by the 
aunt, to whose flame they were fuel only; and this was in¬ 
creased by the addition of dress, which was indeed not wanted 
to set off the lively colours in which Nature had drawn health, 
strength, comeliness, and youth. In the afternoon Joseph, at 
their request, entertained them with the account of his adven¬ 
tures : nor could Lady Booby conceal her dissatisfaction at 
those parts in which Fanny was concerned, especially when 
Mr Booby launched forth into such rapturous praises of her 
beauty. She said, applying to her niece, that she wondered 
her nephew, who had pretended to marry for love, should 
think such a subject proper to amuse his wife with; adding, 
that, for her part, she should be jealous of a husband who 


268 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


spoke so warmly in praise of another woman. Pamela an¬ 
swered, indeed, she thought she had cause; but it was an in¬ 
stance of Mr Booby’s aptness to see more beauty in women 
than they were mistresses of. At which words both the 
women fixed their eyes on two looking-glasses; and Lady 
Booby replied, that men were, in the general, very ill judges 
of beauty; and then, whilst both contemplated only their 
own faces, they paid a cross compliment to each other’s 
charms. When the hour of rest approached, which the lady 
of the house deferred as long as decently she could, she in¬ 
formed Joseph (whom for the future we shall call Mr Joseph, 
he having as good a title to that appellation as many others—I 
mean that incontested one of good clothes) that she had 
ordered a bed to be provided for him. He declined this fa¬ 
vour to his utmost; for his heart had long been with his 
Fanny; but she insisted on his accepting it, alleging that the 
parish had no proper accommodation for such a person as he 
was now to esteem himself. The squire and his lady both 
joining with her, Mr Joseph was at last forced to give over 
his design of visiting Fanny that evening; who, on her side, 
as impatiently expected him till midnight, when, in compla¬ 
cence to Mr Adams’s family, who had sat up two hours out 
of respect to her, she retired to bed, but not to sleep; the 
thoughts of her love kept her waking, and his not returning 
according to his promise filled her with uneasiness; of which, 
however, she could not assign any other cause than merely 
that of being absent from him. 

Mr Joseph rose early in the morning, and visited her in 
whom his soul delighted. She no sooner heard his voice in 
the parson’s parlour than she leapt from her bed, and, dress¬ 
ing herself in a few minutes, went down to him. They 
passed two hours with inexpressible happiness together; and 
then, having appointed Monday, by Mr Adams’s permission, 
for their marriage, Mr Joseph returned, according to his 
promise, to breakfast at the Lady Booby’s, with whose be¬ 
haviour, since the evening, we shall now acquaint the reader. 

She was no sooner retired to her chamber than she asked 
Slipslop what she thought of this wonderful creature her 
nephew had married ?—“ Madam! ” said Slipslop, not yet 

269 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


sufficiently understanding what answer she was to make. “ I 
ask you,” answered the lady, “ what you think of the dowdy, 
my niece, I think I am to call her ? ” Slipslop, wanting no 
further hint, began to pull her to pieces, and so miserably 
defaced her, that it would have been impossible for any one 
to have known the person. The lady gave her all the assis¬ 
tance she could, and ended with saying, “ I think, Slipslop, 
you have done her justice; but yet, bad as she is, she is an 
angel compared to this Fanny.” Slipslop then fell on Fanny, 
whom she hacked and hewed in the like barbarous manner, 
concluding with an observation that there was always some¬ 
thing in those low-life creatures which must eternally dis¬ 
tinguish them from their betters. “ Really,” said the lady, 
“ I think there is one exception to your rule; I am certain 
you may guess who I mean.”—“ Not I, upon my word, 
madam,” said Slipslop. “ I mean a young fellow; sure you 
are the dullest wretch,” said the lady. “ O la! I am indeed. 
Yes, truly, madam, he is an accession,” answered Slipslop. 
“ Aye, is he not, Slipslop ? ” returned the lady. “ Is he not so 
genteel that a prince might, without a blush, acknowledge him 
for his son? His behaviour is such that would not shame 
the best education. He borrows from his station a conde¬ 
scension in everything to his superiors, yet unattended by 
that mean servility which is called good behaviour in such 
persons. Every thing he doth hath no mark of the base mo¬ 
tive of fear, but visibly shows some respect and gratitude, 
and carries with it the persuasion of love. And then for his 
virtues: such piety to his parents, such tender affection to 
his sister, such integrity in his friendship, such bravery, such 
goodness, that, if he had been born a gentleman, his wife 
would have possessed the most invaluable blessing.”—“ To be 
sure, ma’am,” says Slipslop. “ But as he is,” answered the 
lady, “ if he had a thousand more good qualities, it must 
render a woman of fashion contemptible even to be suspected 
of thinking of him; yes, I should despise myself for such a 
thought.”—“ To be sure, ma’am,” said Slipslop. “ And why 
to be sure ? ” replied the lady; “ thou art always one’s echo. 
Is he not more worthy of affection than a dirty country 
clown, though born of a familv as old as the flood? or an 

270 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


idle worthless rake, or little puisny beau of quality? And 
yet these we must condemn ourselves to, in order to avoid 
the censure of the world; to shun the contempt of others, 
we must ally ourselves to those we despise; we must prefer 
birth, title, and fortune, to real merit. It is a tyranny of cus¬ 
tom, a tyranny we must comply with; for we people of fashion 
are the leaves of custom.”—“ Marry come up! ” said Slip¬ 
slop, who now knew well which party to take. “ If I was a 
woman of your ladyship’s fortune and quality, I would be a 
slave to nobody.”—“ Me,” said the lady; “ I am speaking if a 
young woman of fashion, who had seen nothing of the world, 
should happen to like such a fellow.—Me, indeed! I hope thou 

dost not imagine ”-“No, ma’am, to be sure,” cries Slipslop. 

“No! what no?” cried the lady. “Thou art always ready 
to answer before thou hast heard one. So far I must allow 
he is a charming fellow. Me, indeed! No, Slipslop, all 
thoughts of men are over with me. I have lost a husband 
who—but if I should reflect I should run mad. My future 
ease must depend upon forgetfulness. Slipslop, let me hear 
some of thy nonsense, to turn my thoughts another way. 
What dost thou think of Mr Andrews ? ”—“ Why I think,” 
says Slipslop, “ he is the handsomest, most properest man I 
ever saw; and if I was a lady of the greatest degree it would 
be well for some folks. Your ladyship may talk of custom, 
if you please: but I am confidous there is no more comparison 
between young Mr Andrews and most of the young gentle¬ 
men who come to your ladyship’s house in London; a parcel 
of whipper-snapper sparks: I would sooner marry our old 
parson Adams. Never tell me what people say, whilst I am 
happy in the arms of him I love. Some folks rail 'against 
other folks because other folks have what some folks would 
be glad of.”—“ And so,” answered the lady, “ if you was a 
woman of condition, you would really marry Mr Andrews ? ” 
—“ Yes, I assure your ladyship,” replied Slipslop, “ if he 
would have me.”—“ Fool, idiot! ” cries the lady; “ if he 
would have a woman of fashion! is that a question ? ”—“ No, 
truly, madam,” said Slipslop, “ I believe it would be none if 
Fanny was out of the way; and I am confidous, if I was in 
your ladyship’s place, and liked Mr Joseph Andrews, she 

271 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


should not stay in the parish a moment. I am sure lawyer 
Scout would send her packing if your ladyship would but say 
the word.” This last speech of Slipslop raised a tempest in 
the mind of her mistress. She feared Scout had betrayed 
her, or rather that she had betrayed herself. After some 
silence, and a double change of her complexion, first to pale 
and then to red, she thus spoke: “ I am astonished at the lib¬ 
erty you give your tongue. Would you insinuate that I em¬ 
ployed Scout against this wench on account of the fellow ? ” 
—“ La, ma’am,” said Slipslop, frighted out of her wits, “ I 
assassinate such a thing! ”—“ I think you dare not,” an¬ 
swered the lady; “ I believe my •conduct may defy malice it¬ 
self to assert so cursed a slander. If I had ever discovered 
any wantonness, any lightness in my behaviour; if I had fol¬ 
lowed the example of some whom thou hast, I believe, seen, 
in allowing myself indecent liberties, even with a husband; 
but the dear man who is gone” (here she began to sob), 
“was he alive again” (then she produced tears), “could 
not upbraid me with any one act of tenderness or passion. 
No, Slipslop, all the time I cohabited with him he never ob¬ 
tained even a kiss from me without my expressing reluctance 
in the granting it. I am sure he himself never suspected how 
much I loved him. Since his death, thou knowest, though 
it is almost six weeks (it wants but a day) ago, I have not 
admitted one visitor till this fool my nephew arrived. I have 
confined myself quite to one party of friends. And can such 
a conduct as this fear to be arraigned? To be accused, not 
only of a passion which I have always despised, but of fixing 
it on such an object, a creature so much beneath my notice! ” 
—“ Upon my word, ma’am,” says Slipslop, “ I do not under¬ 
stand your ladyship; nor know I anything of the matter.”— 
“ I believe indeed thou dost not understand me. These are 
delicacies which exist only in superior minds; thy coarse 
ideas cannot comprehend them. Thou art a low creature, of 
the Andrews breed, a reptile of a lower order, a weed that 
grows in the common garden of the creation.”—' I assure 
your ladyship,” says Slipslop, whose passions were almost of 
as high an order as her lady’s, “ I have no more to do with 
Common Garden than other folks. Really, your ladyship 

272 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

talks of servants as if they were not born of the Christian 
specious. Servants have flesh and blood as well as quality; 
and Mr Andrews himself is a proof that they have as good, 
if not better. And for my own part, I can’t perceive my 
dears * are coarser than other people’s; and I am sure, if Mr 
Andrews was a dear of mine, I should not be ashamed of 
him in company with gentlemen; for whoever hath seen him 
in his new clothes must confess he looks as much like a gen¬ 
tleman as anybody. Coarse, quotha! I can’t bear to hear 
the poor young fellow run down neither; for I will say this, 
I never heard him say an ill word of anybody in his life. I 
am sure his coarseness doth not lie in his heart, for he is the 
best-natured man in the world; and as for his skin, it is no 
coarser than other people’s, I am sure. His bosom, when a 
boy, was as white as driven snow; and, where it is not covered 
with hairs, is so still. ’Ifaukins! if I was Mrs Andrews, with 
a hundred a-year, I should not envy the best she who wears 
a head. A woman that could not be happy with such a man 
ought never to be so; for if he can’t make a woman happy, 
I never yet beheld the man who could. I say again, I wish I 
was a great lady for his sake. I believe, when I had made a 
gentleman of him, he’d behave so that nobody should depre¬ 
cate what I had done; and I fancy few would venture to tell 
him he was no gentleman to his face, nor to mine neither.” 
At which words, taking up the candles, she asked her mis¬ 
tress, who had been some time in her bed, if she had any far¬ 
ther commands? who mildly answered, she had none; and, 
telling her she was a comical creature, bid her good night. 

* Meaning perhaps ideas. 


18 


273 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


CHAPTER VII. 

PHILOSOPHICAL REFLECTIONS, THE LIKE NOT TO BE FOUND IN 
ANY LIGHT FRENCH ROMANCE. MR BOOBY’S GRAVE ADVICE 
TO JOSEPH, AND FANNY’S ENCOUNTER WITH A BEAU. 

H ABIT, my good reader, hath so vast a prevalence over 
the human mind, that there is scarce anything too 
strange or too strong to be asserted of it. The story of the 
miser, who, from long accustoming to cheat others, came at 
last to cheat himself, and with • great delight and triumph 
picked his own pocket of a guinea to convey to his hoard, is 
not impossible or improbable. In like manner it fares with 
the practisers of deceit, who, from having long deceived their 
acquaintance, gain at last a power of deceiving themselves, 
and acquire that very opinion (however false) of their own 
abilities, excellencies, and virtues, into which they have for 
years perhaps endeavoured to betray their neighbours. Now, 
reader, to apply this observation to my present purpose, thou 
must know, that as the passion generally called love exercises 
most of the talents of the female or fair world, so in this they 
now and theft discover a small inclination to deceit; for which 
thou wilt not be angry with the beautiful creatures when 
thou hast considered that at the age of seven, or something 
earlier, miss is instructed by her mother that master is a very 
monstrous kind of animal, who will, if she suffers him to 
come too near her, infallibly eat her up and grind her to 
pieces: that, so far from kissing or toying with him of her 
own accord, she must not admit him to kiss or toy with her: 
and, lastly, that she must never have any affection towards 
him; for if she should, all her friends in petticoats would 
esteem her a traitress, point at her, and hunt her out of their 
society. These impressions, being first received, are farther 
and deeper inculcated by their school-mistresses and com¬ 
panions ; so that by the age of ten they have contracted such 
a dread and abhorrence of the above-named monster, that 
whenever they see him they fly from him as the innocent hare 
doth from the greyhound. Hence, to the age of fourteen or 
fifteen, they entertain a mighty antipathy to master; they re- 

274 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

solve, and frequently profess, that they will never have any 
commerce with him, and entertain fond hopes of passing their 
lives out of his reach, of the possibility of which they have 
so visible an example in their good maiden aunt. But when 
they arrive at this period, and have now passed their second 
climacteric, when their wisdom, grown riper, begins to see 
a little farther, and, from almost daily falling in master’s 
way, to apprehend the great difficulty of keeping out of it; 
and when they observe him look often at them, and some¬ 
times very eagerly and earnestly too (for the monster sel¬ 
dom takes any notice of them till at this age), they then begin 
to think of their danger; and, as they perceive they cannot 
easily avoid him, the wiser part bethink themselves of pro¬ 
viding by other means for their security. They endeavour, 
by all methods they can invent, to render themselves so amia¬ 
ble in his eyes, that he may have no inclination to hurt them; 
in which they generally succeed so well, that his eyes, by 
frequent languishing, soon lessen their idea of his fierce¬ 
ness, and so far abate their fears, that they venture to parley 
with him; and when they perceive him so different from what 
he hath been described, all gentleness, softness, kindness, ten¬ 
derness, fondness, their dreadful apprehensions vanish in a 
moment; and now (it being usual with the human mind to 
skip from one extreme to its opposite, as easily, and almost 
as suddenly, as a bird from one bough to another) love in¬ 
stantly succeeds to fear: but, as it happens to persons who 
have in their infancy been thoroughly frightened with certain 
no-persons called ghosts, that they retain their dread of those 
beings after they are convinced that there are no such things, 
so these young ladies, though they no longer apprehend de¬ 
vouring, cannot so entirely shake off all that hath been in¬ 
stilled into them; they still entertain the idea of that censure 
which was so strongly imprinted on their tender minds, to 
which the declarations of abhorrence they every day hear 
from their companions greatly contribute. To avoid this cen¬ 
sure, therefore, is now their only care; for which purpose 
they still pretend the same aversion to the monster: and the 
more they love him, the more ardently they counterfeit the 
antipathy. By the continual and constant practice of which 
deceit on others, they at length impose on themselves, and 

275 


s THE ADVENTURES OF 

really believe they hate what they love. Thus, indeed, it 
happened to Lady Booby, who loved Joseph long before she 
knew it; and now loved him much more than she suspected. 
She had indeed, from the time of his sister’s arrival in the 
quality of her niece, and from the instant she viewed him in 
the dress and character of a gentleman, began to conceive 
secretly a design which love had concealed from herself till 
a dream betrayed it to her. 

She had no sooner risen than she sent for her nephew. 
When he came to her, after many compliments on his choice, 
she told him, he might perceive, in her condescension to admit 
her own servant to her table, that she looked on the family 
of Andrews as his relations, and indeed hers; that, as he had 
married into such a family, it became him to endeavour by 
all methods to raise it as much as possible. At length she 
advised him to use all his heart to dissuade Joseph from his 
intended match, which would still enlarge their relation to 
meanness and poverty; concluding that, by a commission in 
the army, or some other genteel employment, he might soon 
put young Mr Andrews on the foot of a gentleman; and, that 
being once done, his accomplishments might quickly gain him 
an alliance which would not be to their discredit. 

Her nephew heartily embraced this proposal; and, finding 
Mr Joseph with his wife, at his return to her chamber, he 
immediately began thus: “ My love to my dear Pamela, bro¬ 
ther, will extend to all her relations; nor shall I show them 
less respect than if I married into the family of a duke. I 
hope I have given you some early testimonies of this, and 
shall continue to give you daily more. You will excuse me 
therefore, brother, if my concern for your interest makes me 
mention what may be, perhaps, disagreeable to you to hear: 
but I must insist upon it, that, if you have any value for my 
alliance or my friendship, you will decline any thoughts of 
engaging farther with a girl who is, as you are a relation of 
mine, so much beneath you. I know there may be at first 
some difficulty in your compliance, but that will daily dimin¬ 
ish ; and you will in the end sincerely thank me for my advice. 
I own indeed, the girl is handsome; but beauty alone is a 
poor ingredient, and will make but an uncomfortable mar¬ 
riage.”—“ Sir,” said Joseph, “ I assure you her beauty is her 

276 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


least perfection; ror do I know a virtue which that young 
creature is not po ,sest of.”—“ As to her virtues,” answered 
Mr Booby, “ you cm be yet but a slender judge of them; but, 
if she had never s^ many, you will find her equal in these 
among her superiors in birth and fortune, which now you are 
to esteem on a footing with yourself, at least I will take care 
they shall shortly be so, unless you prevent me by degrading 
yourself with such a match, a match I have hardly patience 
to think of, and which would break the hearts of your parents, 
who now rejoice in the expectation of seeing you make a figure 
in the world.”—“ I know not,” replied Joseph, “ that my 
parents have any power over my inclinations; nor am I obliged 
to sacrifice my happiness to their whim or ambition: besides, 
I shall be very sorry to see that the unexpected advancement 
of my sister should so suddenly inspire them with this wicked 
pride, and make them despise their equals. I am resolved 
on no account to quit my dear Fanny; no, though I could 
raise her as high above her present station as you have my 
sister.”—“ Your sister, as well as myself,” said Booby, “ are 
greatly obliged to you for the comparison: but, sir, she is 
not worthy to be compared in beauty to my Pamela; nor hath 
she half her merit. And besides, sir, as you civilly throw 
my marriage with your sister in my teeth, I must teach you 
the wide difference between us: my fortune enabled me to 
please myself; and it would have been as overgrown a folly 
in me to have omitted it as in you to do it.”—“ My fortune 
enables me to please myself likewise,” said Joseph; “ for all 
my pleasure is centred in Fanny; and whilst I have health I 
shall be able to support her with my labour in that station 
to which she was born, and with which she is content.”— 
“ Brother,” said Pamela, “ Mr Booby advises you as a friend; 
and no doubt my papa and mamma will be of his opinion, and 
will have great reason to be angry with you for destroying 
what his goodness hath done, and throwing down our family 
again, after he hath raised it. It would become you better, 
brother, to pray for the assistance of grace against such a 
passion than to indulge it.”—“ Sure, sister, you are not in 
earnest; I am sure she is your equal, at least.”—“ She was 
my equal,” answered Pamela; “but I am no longer Pamela 
Andrews; I am now this gentleman’s lady, and, as such, am 

277 


THE ADVENTURES O'? 


above her.—I hope I shall never behave w ; th an unbecoming 
pride: but, at the same time, I shall always endeavour to 
know myself, and question not the assistance of grace to that 
purposed They were now summoned to breakfast, and thus 
ended their discourse for the present, very little to the satis¬ 
faction of any of the parties. 

Fanny was now walking in an avenue at some distance 
from the house, where Joseph had promised to take the first 
opportunity of coming to her. She had not a shilling in the 
world, and had subsisted ever since her return entirely on 
the charity of parson Adams. A young gentleman, attended 
by many servants, came up to her, and asked her if that was 
not the Lady Booby’s house before him? This, indeed, he 
well know; but had framed the question for no other reason 
than to make her look up, and discover if her face was equal 
to the delicacy of her shape. He no sooner saw it than he 
was struck with amazement. He stopt his horse, and swore 
she was the most beautiful creature he ever beheld. Then, 
instantly alighting and delivering his horse to his servant, 
he rapt out half-a-dozen oaths that he would kiss her: to 
which she at first submitted, begging he would not be rude; 
but he was not satisfied with the civility of a salute, nor 
even with the rudest attack he could make on her lips, but 
caught her in his arms, and endeavoured to kiss her breasts, 
which with all her strength she resisted, and, as our spark 
was not of the Herculean race, with some difficulty prevented. 
The young gentleman, being soon out of breath in the strug¬ 
gle, quitted her, and, remounting his horse, called one of 
his servants to him, whom he ordered to stay behind with 
her, and make her any offers whatever to prevail on her to 
return home with him in the evening; and to assure her he 
would take her into keeping. He then rode on with his other 
servants, and arrived at the lady’s house, to whom he was a 
distant relation, and was come to pay a visit. 

The trusty fellow, who was employed in an office he had 
been long accustomed to, discharged his part with all the 
fidelity and dexterity imaginable, but to no purpose. She was 
entirely deaf to his offers, and rejected them with the utmost 
disdain. At last the pimp, who had perhaps more warm 
blood about him than his master, began to solicit for himself; 

278 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


he told her, though he was a servant, he was a man of some 
fortune, which he would make her mistress of; and this 
without any insult to her virtue, for that he would marry her. 
She answered, if his master himself, or the greatest lord in the 
land, would marry her, she would refuse him. At last, being 
weary with persuasions, and on fire with charms which would 
have almost kindled a flame in the bosom of an ancient phi¬ 
losopher or modern divine, he fastened his horse to the 
ground, and attacked her with much more force than the gen¬ 
tleman had exerted. Poor Fanny would not have been able to 
resist his rudeness any long time, but the deity who presides 
over chaste love sent her Joseph to her assistance. He no 
sooner came within sight, and perceived her struggling with a 
man, than, like a cannon-ball, or like lightning, or anything 
that is swifter, if anything be, he ran towards her, and, com¬ 
ing up just as the ravisher had torn her handkerchief from 
her breast, before his lips had touched that seat of innocence 
and bliss, he dealt him so lusty a blow in that part of his neck 
which a rope would have become with the utmost propriety, 
that the fellow staggered backwards, and, perceiving he had 
to do with something rougher than the little, tender, trem¬ 
bling hand of Fanny, he quitted her, and, turning about, saw 
his rival, with fire flashing from his eyes, again ready to 
assail him; and, indeed, before he could well defend himself, 
or return the first blow, he received a second, which, had 
it fallen on that part of the stomach to which it was directed, 
would have been probably the last he would have had any 
occasion for; but the ravisher, lifting up his hand, drove the 
blow upwards to his mouth, whence it dislodged three of his 
teeth; and, now, not conceiving any extraordinary affection 
for the beauty of Joseph’s person, nor being extremely pleased 
with this method of salutation, he collected all his force, and 
aimed a blow at Joseph’s breast, which he artfully parried 
with one fist, so that it lost its force entirely in air; and, 
stepping one foot backward, he darted his fist so fiercely at his 
enemy, that, had he not caught it in his hand (for he was 
a boxer of no inferior fame), it must have tumbled him on 
the ground. And now the ravisher meditated another blow, 
which he aimed at that part of the breast where the heart 
is lodged; Joseph did not catch it as before, yet so prevented 

279 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


its aim that it fell directly on his nose, but with abated force. 
Joseph then, moving both fist and foot forwards at the same 
time, threw his head so dexterously into the stomach of the 
ravisher that he fell a lifeless lump on the field, where he lay 
many minutes breathless and motionless. 

When Fanny saw her Joseph receive a blow in his face, 
and blood running in a stream from him, she began to tear 
her hair and invoke all human and divine power to his assis¬ 
tance. She was not, however, long under this affliction be¬ 
fore Joseph, having conquered his enemy, ran to her, and 
assured her he was not hurt; she then instantly fell on her 
knees and thanked God that he had made Joseph the means 
of her rescue, and at the same time preserved him from being 
injured in attempting it. She offered, with her handkerchief, 
to wipe his blood from his face; but he, seeing his rival at¬ 
tempting to recover his legs, turned to him, and asked him 
if he had enough? To which the other answered he had; 
for he believed he had fought with the devil instead of a man; 
and, loosening his horse, said he should not have attempted 
the wench if he had known she had been so well provided for. 

Fanny now begged Joseph to return with her to parson 
Adams, and to promise that he would leave her no more. 
These were propositions so agreeable to Joseph, that, had he 
heard them, he would have given an immediate assent; but 
indeed his eyes were now his only sense; for you may re¬ 
member, reader, that the ravisher had tore her handkerchief 
from Fanny’s neck, by which he had discovered such a sight, 
that Joseph hath declared all the statues he ever'beheld were 
so much inferior to it in beauty, that it was more capable of 
converting a man into a statue than of being initiated by the 
greatest master of that art. This modest creature, whom no 
warmth in summer could ever induce to expose her charms 
to the wanton sun, a modesty to which, perhaps, they owed 
their inconceivable whiteness, had stood many minutes bare¬ 
necked in the presence of Joseph before her apprehension of 
his danger and the horror of seeing his blood would suffer 
her once to reflect on what concerned herself; till at last, 
when the cause of her concern had vanished, an admiration 
at his silence, together with observing the fixed position of 
his eyes, produced an idea in the lovely maid which brought 

280 



Joseph threw his head so dexterously into the stomach of the ravisher, that he fell 























































ft 










. 








. 


























































































JOSEPH ANDREWS 


more blood into her face than had flowed from Joseph’s 
nostrils. The snowy hue of her bosom was likewise changed 
to vermilion at the instant when she clapped her handker¬ 
chief round her neck. Joseph saw the uneasiness she suf¬ 
fered, and immediately removed his eyes from an object, in 
surveying which he had felt the greatest delight which the 
organs of sight were capable of conveying to his soul;—so 
great was his fear of offending her, and so truly did his pas¬ 
sion for her deserve the noble name of love. 

Fanny, being recovered from her confusion, which was 
almost equalled by what Joseph had felt from observing it, 
again mentioned her request; this was instantly and gladly 
complied with; and together they crossed two or three fields, 
which brought them to the habitation of Mr Adams. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A DISCOURSE WHICH HAPPENED BETWEEN MR ADAMS, MRS 
ADAMS, JOSEPH, AND FANNY; WITH SOME BEHAVIOUR OF 
MR ADAMS WHICH WILL BE CALLED BY SOME FEW READERS 
VERY LOW, ABSURD, AND UNNATURAL. 

T HE parson and his wife had just ended a long dispute 
when the lovers came to the door. Indeed, this young 
couple had been the subject of the dispute; for Mrs Adams 
was one of those prudent people who never do anything to 
injure their families, or, perhaps, one of those good mothers 
who would even stretch their conscience to serve their chil¬ 
dren. She had long entertained hopes of seeing her eldest 
daughter succeeded Mrs Slipslop, and of making her second 
son an exciseman by Lady Booby’s interest. These were ex¬ 
pectations she could not endure the thoughts of quitting, and 
was, therefore, very uneasy to see her husband so resolute to 
oppose the lady’s intention in Fanny’s affair. She told him, 
it behoved every man to take the first care of his family; that 
he had a wife and six children, the maintaining and providing 
for whom would be business enough for him without inter¬ 
meddling in other folks’ affairs; that he had always preached 

281 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


up submission to superiors, and would do ill to give an exam¬ 
ple of the contrary behaviour in his own conduct; that if Lady 
Booby did wrong she must answer for it herself, and the sin 
would not lie^at their door; that Fanny had been a servant, 
and bred up in the lady’s own family, and consequently she 
must have known more of her than they did, and it was very 
improbable, if she had behaved herself well, that the lady 
would have been so bitterly her enemy; that perhaps he was 
too much inclined to think well of her because she was hand¬ 
some, but handsome women were often no better than they 
should be; that God made ugly women as well as handsome 
ones; and that if a woman had virtue it signified nothing 
whether she had beauty or no.” For all which reasons she 
concluded he should oblige the lady, and stop the future pub¬ 
lication of the banns. But all these excellent arguments had 
no effect on the parson, who persisted in doing his duty with¬ 
out regarding the consequence it might have on his worldly 
interest. He endeavoured to answer her as well as he could; 
to which she had just finished her reply (for she had always 
the last word everywhere but at church) when Joseph and 
Fanny entered their kitchen, where the parson and his wife 
then sat at breakfast over some bacon and cabbage. There 
was a coldness in the civility of Mrs Adams which persons of 
accurate speculation might have observed, but escaped her 
present guests; indeed, it was a good deal covered by the 
heartiness of Adams, who no sooner heard that Fanny had 
neither eat nor drank that morning than he presented her a 
bone of bacon he had just been gnawing, being the only re¬ 
mains of his provision, and then ran nimbly to the tap, and 
produced a mug of small beer, which he called ale; however, 
it was the best in his house. Joseph, addressing himself to 
the parson, told him the discourse which had past between 
Squire Booby, his sister, and himself, concerning Fanny; he 
then acquainted him with the dangers whence he had rescued 
her, and communicated some apprehensions on her account. 
He concluded that he should never have an easy moment till 
Fanny was absolutely his, and begged that he might be suf¬ 
fered to fetch a licence, saying he could easily borrow the 
money. The parson answered, that he had already given his 

282 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


sentiments concerning 1 a licence, and that a very few days 
would make it unnecessary. “ Joseph,” says he, “ I wish this 
haste doth not arise rather from your impatience than your 
fear; but, as it certainly springs from one of these causes, I 
will examine both. Of each of these therefore in their turn; 
and first for the first of these, namely, impatience. Now, 
child, I must inform you that, if in your purposed marriage 
with this young woman you have no intention but the indul¬ 
gence of carnal appetites, you are guilty of a very heinous sin. 
Marriage was ordained for nobler purposes, as you will learn 
when you hear the service provided on that occasion read to 
you. Nay, perhaps, if you are a good lad, I shall give you 
a sermon gratis, wherein I shall demonstrate how little regard 
ought to be had to the flesh on such occasions. The text will 
be, child, Matthew the 5th, and part of the 28th verse— Who¬ 
soever looketh on a woman, so as to lust after her. The lat¬ 
ter part I shall omit, as foreign to my purpose. Indeed, all 
such brutal lusts and affections are to be greatly subdued, 
if not totally eradicated, before the vessel can be said to be 
consecrated to honour. To marry with a view of gratifying 
those inclinations is a prostitution of that holy ceremony, and 
must entail a curse on all who so lightly undertake it. If, 
therefore, this haste arises from impatience, you are to cor¬ 
rect, and not give way to it. Now, as to the second head 
which I proposed to speak to, namely, fear: it argues a diffi¬ 
dence, highly criminal, of that Power in which alone we 
should put our trust, seeing we may be well assured that he 
is able, not only to defeat the designs of our enemies, but even 
to turn their hearts. Instead of taking, therefore, any unjus¬ 
tifiable or desperate means to rid ourselves of fear, we should 
resort to prayer only on these occasions; and we may be then 
certain of obtaining what is best for us. When any accident 
threatens us we are not to despair, nor, when it overtakes us, 
to grieve; we must submit in all things to the will of Provi¬ 
dence, and not set our affections so much on anything here as 
not to be able to quit it without reluctance. You are a young 
man, and can know but little of this world; I am older, and 
have seen a great deal. All passions are criminal in their ex¬ 
cess ; and even love itself, if it is not subservient to our duty, 

283 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


may render us blind to it. Had Abraham so loved his son 
Isaac as to refuse the sacrifice required, is there any of us who 
would not condemn him? Joseph, I know your many good 
qualities, and value you for them; but, as I am to render an 
account of your soul, which is committed to my cure, I cannot 
see any fault without reminding you of it. You are too much 
inclined to passion, child, and have set your affections so ab¬ 
solutely on this young woman, that, if God required her at 
your hands, I fear you would reluctantly part with her. Now, 
believe me, no Christian ought so to set his heart on any per¬ 
son or thing in this world, but that, whenever it shall be re¬ 
quired or taken from him in any manner by Divine Provi¬ 
dence, he may be able, peaceably, quietly, and contentedly to 
resign it.” At which words one came hastily in, and ac¬ 
quainted Mr Adams that his youngest son was drowned. He 
stood silent a moment, and soon began to stamp about the 
room and deplore his loss with the bitterest agony. Joseph, 
who was overwhelmed with concern likewise, recovered him¬ 
self sufficiently to endeavour to comfort the parson; in which 
attempt he used many arguments that he had at several times 
remembered out of his own discourses, both in private and 
public (for he was a great enemy to the passions, and 
preached nothing more than the conquest of them by reason 
and grace), but he was not at leisure now to hearken to his 
advice. “ Child, child,” said he, “ do not go about impossibili¬ 
ties. Had it been any other of my children I could have borne 
it with patience; but my little prattler, the darling and com¬ 
fort of my old age,—the little wretch, to be snatched out of 
life just at his entrance into it; the sweetest, best-tempered 
boy, who never did a thing to offend me. It was but this 
morning I gave him his first lesson in Quce Genus. This was 
the very book he learnt; poor child! it is of no further use to 
thee now. He would have made the best scholar, and have 
been an ornament to the church;—such parts and such good¬ 
ness never met in one so young.” “ And the handsomest lad 
too,” says Mrs Adams, recovering from a swoon in Fanny’s 
arms. “ My poor Jacky, shall I never see thee more? ” cries 
the parson. “ Yes, surely,” says Joseph, “ and in a better 
place; you will meet again, never to part more.” I believe the 

284 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


parson did not hear these words, for he paid little regard to 
them, but went on lamenting, whilst the tears trickled down 
into his bosom. At last he cried out, “ Where is my little dar¬ 
ling ? ” and was sallying out, when to his great surprize and 
joy, in which I hope the reader will sympathize, he met his 
son in a wet condition indeed, but alive and running towards 
him. The person who brought the news of his misfortune had 
been a little too eager, as people sometimes are, from, I be¬ 
lieve, no very good principle, to relate ill news; and, having 
seen him fall into the river, instead of running to his assis¬ 
tance, directly ran to acquaint his father of a fate which he 
had concluded to be inevitable, but whence the child was re¬ 
lieved by the same poor pedlar who had relieved his father 
before from a less distress. The parson’s joy was now as ex¬ 
travagant as his grief had been before; he kissed and em¬ 
braced his son a thousand times, and danced about the room 
like one frantic; but as soon as he discovered the face of his 
old friend the pedlar, and heard the fresh obligation he had to 
him, what were his sensations ? not those which two courtiers 
feel in one another’s embraces; not those with which a great 
man receives the vile treacherous engines of his wicked pur¬ 
poses, not those with which a worthless younger brother wishes 
his elder joy of a son, or a man congratulates his rival on his 
obtaining a mistress, a place, or an honour.—No, reader; he 
felt the ebullition, the overflowings of a full, honest, open 
heart, towards the person who had conferred a real obligation, 
and of which, if thou canst not conceive an idea within, I will 
not vainly endeavour to assist thee. 

When these tumults were over, the parson, taking Joseph 
aside, proceeded thus—“ No, Joseph, do not give too much 
way to thy passions, if thou dost expect happiness.” The pa¬ 
tience of Joseph, nor perhaps of Job, could bear no longer; he 
interrupted the parson, saying, it was easier to give advice 
than to take it; nor did he perceive he could so entirely con¬ 
quer himself, when he apprehended he had lost his son, or 
when he found him recovered.—“ Boy,” replied Adams, rais¬ 
ing his voice, “ it doth not become green heads to advise grey 
hairs.—Thou art ignorant of the tenderness of fatherly affec¬ 
tion ; when thou art a father thou wilt be capable then only of 

285 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


knowing what a father can feel. No man is obliged to im¬ 
possibilities ; and the loss of a child is one of those great trials 
where our grief may be allowed to become immoderate.”— 
“ Well, sir,” cries Joseph, “ and if I love a mistress as well as 
you your child, surely her loss would grieve me equally.”— 
“ Yes, but such love is foolishness and wrong in itself, and 
ought to be conquered,” answered Adams; “ it savours too 
much of the flesh.”—“ Sure, sir,” says Joseph, “ it is not sin¬ 
ful to love my wife, no, not even to do'at on her to distrac¬ 
tion ! ”—“ Indeed but it is,” says Adams. "Every man ought 
to love his wife, no doubt; we are commanded so to do; but 
we ought to love her with moderation and discretion.”—“ I am 
afraid I shall be guilty of some sin in spite of all my endeav¬ 
ours,” says Joseph; “ for I shall love without any moderation, 
I am sure.”—“ You talk foolishly and childishly,” cries 
Adams.—“ Indeed,” says Mrs Adams, who had listened to 
the latter part of their conversation, “ you talk more foolishly 
yourself. I hope, my dear, you will never preach any such 
doctrine as that husbands can love their wives too well. If I 
knew you had such a sermon in the house I am sure I would 
burn it, and I declare, if I had not been convinced you had 
loved me as , well t as you could, I can answer for myself, I 
should have hated and despised you. Marry come up! Fine 
doctrine, indeed! A wife hath a right to insist on her hus¬ 
band’s loving her as much as ever he can; and he is a sinful 
villain who doth not. Doth he not promise to love her, and to 
comfort her, and to cherish her, and all that ? I am sure I re¬ 
member it all as well as if I had repeated it over but yesterday, 
and shall never forget it. Besides, I am certain you do not 
preach as you practise; for you have been a loving and a cher¬ 
ishing husband to me; that’s the truth on’t; and why you 
should endeavour to put such wicked nonsense into this young 
man’s head I cannot devise. Don’t hearken to him, Mr Jo¬ 
seph; be as good a husband as you are able, and love your 
wife with all your body and soul too.” Here a violent rap at 
the door put an end to their discourse, and produced a scene 
which the reader will find in the next chapter. 


286 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


CHAPTER IX. 


A VISIT WHICH THE POLITE LADY BOOBY AND HER POLITE 
FRIEND PAID TO THE PARSON. 

HE Lady Booby had no sooner had an account from the 



X gentleman of his meeting a wonderful beauty near her 
house, and perceived the raptures with which he spoke of her, 
than, immediately concluding it must be Fanny, she began to 
meditate a design of bringing them better acquainted; and to 
entertain hopes that the fine clothes, presents, and promises of 
this youth, would prevail on her to abandon Joseph : she there¬ 
fore proposed to her company a walk in the fields before din¬ 
ner, when she led them towards Mr Adams’s house; and, as 
she approached it, told them if they pleased she would divert 
them with one of the most ridiculous sights they had ever 
seen, which was an old foolish parson, who, she said, laugh¬ 
ing, kept a wife and six brats on a salary of about twenty 
pounds a year; adding, that there was not such another 
ragged family in the parish. They all readily agreed to this 
visit, and arrived whilst Mrs Adams was declaiming as in the 
last chapter. Beau Didapper, which was the name of the 
young gentleman we have seen riding towards Lady Booby’s, 
with his cane mimicked the rap of a London footman at the 
door. The people within, namely, Adams, his wife and three 
children, Joseph, Fanny, and the pedlar, were all thrown into 
confusion by this knock, but Adams went directly to the door, 
which being opened, the Lady Booby and her company 
walked in, and were received by the parson with about two 
hundred bows, and by his wife with as many curtsies; the lat¬ 
ter telling the lady she was ashamed to be seen in such a 
pickle, and that her house was in such a litter; but that if she 
had expected such an honour from her ladyship she should 
have found her in a better manner. The parson made no 
apologies, though he was in his half-cassock and a flannel 
night-cap. He said they were heartily welcome to his poor 
cottage, and, turning to Mr Didapper, cried out, “Non mea 
renidet in domo lacunar.” The beau answered, he did not un- 


287 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


derstand Welsh; at which the parson stared and made no 
reply. 

Mr Didapper, or beau Didapper, was a young gentleman 
of about four foot five inches in height. He wore his own 
hair, though the scarcity of it might have given him sufficient 
excuse for a periwig. His face was thin and pale; the shape 
of his body and legs none of the best, for he had very narrow 
shoulders and no calf; and his gait might more properly be 
called hopping than walking. The qualifications of his mind 
were well adapted to his person. We shall handle them first 
negatively. He was not entirely ignorant; for he could talk 
a little French and sing two or three Italian songs: he had 
lived too much in the world to be bashful, and too much at 
court to be proud : he seemed not much inclined to avarice, for 
he was profuse in his expenses; nor had he all the features of 
prodigality, for he never gave a shilling: no hater of women, 
for he always dangled after them; yet so little subject to lust, 
that he had, among those who knew him best, the character of 
great moderation in his pleasures: no drinker of wine; nor so 
addicted to passion but that a hot word or two from an adver¬ 
sary made him immediately cool. 

Now, to give him only a dash or two on the affirmative side : 
though he was born to an immense fortune, he chose, for the 
pitiful and dirty consideration of a place of little consequence, 
to depend entirely on the will of a fellow whom they call a 
great man; who treated him with the utmost disrespect, and 
exacted of him a plenary obedience to his commands, which he 
implicitly submitted to, at the expense of his conscience, his 
honour, and of his country, in which he had himself so very 
large a share. And to finish his character; as he was entirely 
well satisfied with his own person and parts, so he was very 
apt to ridicule and laugh at any imperfection in another. 
Such was the little person, or rather thing, that hopped after 
Lady Booby into Mr Adams’s kitchen. 

The parson and his company retreated from the chimney- 
side, where they had been seated, to give room to the lady and 
hers. Instead of returning any of the curtsies or extraordi¬ 
nary civility of Mr Adams, the lady, turning to Mr Booby, 
cried out, “Quelle Betel Quel Animal!” And presently 

288 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


after discovering Fanny (for she did not need the circum¬ 
stance of her standing by Joseph to assure the identity of her 
person), she asked the beau whether he did not think her a 
pretty girl ?—“ Begad, madam/’ answered he, “ ’tis the very 
same I met.” “ I did not imagine,” replied the lady, “ you 
had so good a taste.”—Because I never liked you, I war¬ 
rant,” cries the beau. “ Ridiculous! ” said she: “ you know 
you was always my aversion.” “ I would never mention aver¬ 
sion,” answered the beau, “with that face; * dear Lady Booby, 
wash your face before you mention aversion, I beseech you.” 
He then laughed, and turned about to coquet it with Fanny. 

Mrs Adams had been all this time begging and praying the 
ladies to sit down, a favour which she at last obtained. The 
little boy to whom the accident had happened, still keeping his 
place by the fire, was chid by his mother for not being more 
mannerly : but Lady Booby took his part, and commending his 
beauty, told the parson he was his very picture. She then, 
seeing a book in his hand, asked if he could read?—“Yes,” 
cried Adams, “ a little Latin, madam: he is just got into Qua? 
Genus.”—“ A fig for quere genius! ” answered she; “ let me 
hear him read a little English.”—“ Lege, Dick, lege,” said 
Adams: but the boy made no answer, till he saw the parson 
knit his brows, and then cried, “ I don’t understand you, 
father.”—“ How, boy! ” says Adams; “ what doth lego make 
in the imperative mood ? Legito, doth it not ? ”—“ Yes,” an¬ 
swered Dick.—“And what besides?” says the father. “Lege,” 
quoth the son, after some hesitation. “ A good boy,” says 
the father: “ and now, child, what is the English of lego ? ”— 
To which the boy, after long puzzling, answered, he could 
not tell. “ How ! ” cries Adams, in a passion;—“ what, hath 
the water washed away your learning? Why, what is Latin 
for the English verb read ? Consider before you speak.” The 
child considered some time, and then the parson cried twice 
or thrice, “ Le—, Le—.” Dick answered, “ Lego.”—“ Very 
we lland then what is the English,” says the parson, “ of 

* Lest this should appear unnatural to some readers, we think proper 
to acquaint them, that it is taken verbatim from very polite conver¬ 
sation. 


19 


289 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


the verb lego? ”—“ To read,” cried Dick.—“ Very well,” said 
the parson; “ a good boy: you can do well if you will take 
pains.—I assure your ladyship he is not much above eight 
years old, and is out of his Propria quae Maribus already.— 
Come, Dick, read to her ladyship; ”—which she again desir¬ 
ing, in order to give the beau time and opportunity with 
Fanny, Dick began as in the following chapter. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE HISTORY OF TWO FRIENDS, WHICH MAY AFFORD AN USE¬ 
FUL LESSON TO ALL THOSE PERSONS WHO HAPPEN TO TAKE 
UP THEIR RESIDENCE IN MARRIED FAMILIES. 

“ LONARD and Paul were two friends.”—“ Pronounce it 



JL^d Lennard, child,” cried the parson.—“ Pray, Mr Adams,” 
says Lady Booby, “ let your son read without interruption.” 
Dick then proceeded. “ Lennard and Paul were two friends, 
who, having been educated together at the same school, com¬ 
menced a friendship which they preserved a long time for each 
other. It was so deeply fixed in both their minds, that a long 
absence, during which they had maintained no correspondence, 
did not eradicate nor lessen it: but it revived in all its force 
at their first meeting, which was not till after fifteen years’ 
absence, most of which time Lennard had spent in the East 

Indi-es.”—“ Pronounce it short, Indies,” says Adams.- 

“ Pray, sir, be quiet,” says the lady.—The boy repeated,— 
“ in the East Indies, whilst Paul had served his king and 
country in the army. In which different services they had 
found such different success, that Lennard was now married, 
and retired with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds; and 
Paul was arrived to the degree of a lieutenant of foot; and 
was not worth a single shilling. 

“ The regiment in which Paul was stationed happened to be 
ordered into quarters within a small distance from the estate 
which Lennard had purchased, and where he was settled. 
This latter, who was now become a country gentleman, and 
a justice of peace, came to attend the quarter sessions in the 
town where his old friend was quartered, soon after his arrival. 




JOSEPH ANDREWS 


Some affair in which a soldier was concerned occasioned 
Paul to attend the justices. Manhood, and time, and the 
change of climate, had so much altered Lennard, that Paul 
did not immediately recollect the features of his old acquain¬ 
tance : but it was otherwise with Lennard. He knew Paul 
the moment he saw him; nor could he contain himself from 
quitting the bench, and running hastily to embrace him. Paul 
stood first a little surprized; but had soon sufficient informa¬ 
tion from his friend, whom he no sooner remembered than 
he returned his embrace with a passion which made many 
of the spectators laugh, and gave to some few a much higher 
and more agreeable sensation. 

“ Not to detain the reader with minute circumstances, Len¬ 
nard insisted on his. friend’s returning with him to his house 
that evening; which request was complied with, and leave for 
a month’s absence for Paul obtained of the commanding 
officer. 

“ If it was possible for any circumstance to give any addi¬ 
tion to the happiness which Paul proposed in this visit, he 
received that additional pleasure by finding, on his arrival 
at his friend’s house, that his lady was an old acquaintance 
which he had formerly contracted at his quarters, and who 
had always appeared to be of a most agreeable temper; a 
character she had ever maintained among her intimates, being 
of that number, every individual of which is called quite 
the best sort of woman in the world. 

“ But, good as this lady was, she was still a woman; that 
is to say, an angel, and not an angel.”—“ You must mistake, 
child,” cries the parson, “ for you read nonsense.”—“ It is so 
in the book,” answered the son. Mr Adams was then silenced 
by authority, and Dick proceeded.—“ For though her person 
was of that kind to which men attribute the name of angel, 
yet in her mind she was perfectly woman. Of which a great 
degree of obstinacy gave the most remarkable and perhaps 
most pernicious instance. 

“A day or two passed after Paul’s arrival before any in¬ 
stances of this appeared; but it was impossible to conceal it 
long. Both she and her husband soon lost all apprehension 
from their friend’s presence, and fell to their disputes with 
as much vigour as ever. These were still pursued with the 

291 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


utmost ardour and eagerness, however trifling the causes were 
whence they first arose. Nay, however incredible it may seem, 
the little consequence of the matter in debate was frequently 
given as a reason for the fierceness of the contention, as 
thus: ‘ If you loved me, sure you would never dispute with 
me such a trifle as this/ The answer to which is very ob¬ 
vious ; for the argument would hold equally on both sides, 
and was constantly retorted with some addition, as—‘ I am 
sure I have much more reason to say so, who am in the right.’ 
During all these disputes, Paul always kept strict silence, and 
preserved an even countenance, without showing the least 
visible inclination to either party. One day, however, when 
madam had left the room in a violent fury, Lennard could not 
refrain from referring his cause to his friend. Was ever any¬ 
thing so unreasonable, says he, as this woman? What shall 
I do with her? I doat on her to distraction; nor have I any 
cause to complain of, more than this obstinacy in her temper; 
whatever she asserts, she will maintain against all the reason 
and conviction in the world. Pray give me your advice.— 
First, says Paul, I will give my opinion, which is, flatly, that 
you are in the wrong; for, supposing she is in the wrong, was 
the subject of your contention any ways material? What 
signified it whether you was married in a red or a yellow 
waistcoat ? for that was your dispute. Now, suppose she was 
mistaken; as you love her you say so tenderly, and I believe 
she deserves it, would it not have been wiser to have yielded, 
though you certainly knew yourself in the right, than to give 
either her or yourself any uneasiness? For my own part, if 
ever I marry,I am resolved to enter into an agreement with my 
wife, that in all disputes (especially about trifles) that party 
who is most convinced they are right shall always surrender 
the victory; by which means we shall both be forward to give 
up the cause. I own, said Lennard, my dear friend, shaking 
him by the hand, there is great truth and reason in what 
you say; and I will for the future endeavour to follow your 
advice. They soon after broke up the conversation, and Len¬ 
nard, going to his wife, asked her pardon, and told her his 
friend had convinced him he had been in the wrong. She 
immediately began a vast encomium on Paul, in which he 
seconded her, and both agreed he was the worthiest and wisest 

292 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

man upon earth. When next they met, which was at supper, 
though she had promised not to mention what her husband 
told her, she could not forbear casting the kindest and most 
affectionate looks on Paul, and asked him, with the sweetest 
voice, whether she should help him to some potted woodcock ? 
Potted partridge, my dear, you mean, says the husband. My 
dear, says she, I ask your friend if he will eat any potted 
woodcock; and I am sure I must know, who potted it. I 
think I should know too, who shot them, replied the husband, 
and I am convinced that I have not seen a woodcock this year; 
however, though I know I am in the right, I submit, and the 
potted partridge is potted woodcock if you desire to have 
it so. It is equal to me, says she, whether it is one or the 
other; but you would persuade one out of one’s senses; to be 
sure, you are always in the right in your own opinion; but 
your friend, I believe, knows which he is eating. Paul an¬ 
swered nothing, and the dispute continued, as usual, the 
greatest part of the evening. The next morning the lady, 
accidentally meeting Paul, and being convinced he was her 
friend, and of her side, accosted him thus:—I am certain, sir, 
you have long since wondered at the unreasonableness of my 
husband. He is indeed, in other respects, a good sort of 
man, but so positive, that no woman but one of my complying 
temper could possibly live with him. Why, last night, now, 
was ever any creature so unreasonable? I am certain you 
must condemn him. Pray, answer me, was he not in the 
wrong ? Paul, after a short silence, spoke as follows: I am 
sorry, madam, that, as good manners obliges me to answer 
against my will, so an adherence to truth forces me to declare 
myself of a different opinion. To be plain and honest, you 
was entirely in the wrong; the cause I own not worth dis¬ 
puting, but the bird was undoubtedly a partridge. O sir! 
replied the lady, I cannot possibly help your taste. Madam, 
returned Paul, that is very little material; for, had it been 
otherwise, a husband might have expected submission.—In¬ 
deed ! sir, says she, I assure you!—Yes, madam, cried he, he 
might, from a person of your excellent understanding; and 
pardon me for saying, such a condescension would have shown 
a superiority of sense even to your husband himself.—But, 
dear sir, said she, why should I submit when I am in the 

2 93 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


right?—For that very reason, answered he; it would be the 
greatest instance of affection imaginable; for can anything 
be a greater object of our compassion than a person we love 
in the wrong? Aye, but I should endeavour, said she, to 
set him right. Pardon me, madam, answered Paul: I will 
apply to your own experience if you ever found your argu¬ 
ments had that effect. The more our judgments err, the 
less we are willing to own it: for my own part, I have 
always observed the persons who maintain the worst side in 
any contest are the warmest. Why, says she, I must confess 
there is truth in what you say, and I will endeavour to prac¬ 
tise it. The husband then coming in, Paul departed. And 
Lennard, approaching his wife with the air of good humour, 
told her he was sorry for their foolish dispute the last night; 
but he was now convinced of his error. She answered, 
smiling, she believed she owed his condescension to his com¬ 
placence; that she was ashamed to think a word had passed 
on so silly an occasion, especially as she was satisfied she had 
been mistaken. A little contention followed, but with the 
utmost good-will to each other, and was concluded by her as¬ 
serting that Paul had thoroughly convinced her she had been 
in the wrong. Upon which they both united in the praises 
of their common friend. 

“ Paul now passed his time with great satisfaction, these 
disputes being much less frequent, as well as shorter than 
usual; but the devil, or some unlucky accident in which per¬ 
haps the devil had no hand, shortly put an end to his hap¬ 
piness. He was now eternally the private referee of every 
difference; in which, after having perfectly, as he thought, 
established the doctrine of submission, he never scrupled to 
assure both privately that they were in the right in every 
argument, as before he had followed the contrary method. 
One day a violent litigation happened in his absence, and 
both parties agreed to refer it to his decision. The husband 
professing himself sure the decision would be in his favour; 
the wife answered, he might be mistaken; for she believed his 
friend was convinced how seldom she was to blame; and 
that if he knew all—The husband replied, My dear, I have 
no desire of any retrospect; but I believe, if you knew all 
too, you would not imagine my friend so entirely on your 

294 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


side. Nay, says she, since you provoke me, I will mention one 
instance. You may remember our dispute about sending 
Jackey to school in cold weather, which point I gave up to 
you from mere compassion, knowing myself to be in the 
right; and Paul himself told me afterwards he thought me 
so. My dear, replied the husband, I will not scruple your 
veracity; but I assure you solemnly, on my applying to him, 
he gave it absolutely on my side, and said he would have 
acted in the same manner. They then proceeded to produce 
numberless other instances, in all which Paul had, on vows 
of secresv, given his opinion on both sides. In the conclu¬ 
sion, both believing each other, they fell severely on the 
treachery of Paul, and agreed that he had been the occasion 
of almost every dispute which had fallen out between them. 
They then became extremely loving, and so full of conde¬ 
scension on both sides, that they vied with each other in cen¬ 
suring their own conduct, and jointly vented their indignation 
on Paul, whom the wife, fearing a bloody consequence, ear¬ 
nestly entreated her husband to suffer quietly to depart the 
next day, which was the time fixed for his return to quarters, 
and then drop his acquaintance. 

“ However ungenerous this behaviour in Lennard may be 
esteemed, his wife obtained a promise from him (though with 
difficulty) to follow her advice; but they both expressed such 
unusual coldness that day to Paul, that he, who was quick 
of apprehension, taking Lennard aside, pressed him so home, 
that he at last discovered the secret. Paul acknowledged the 
truth, but told him the design with which he had done it.— 
To which the other answered, he would have acted more 
friendly to have let him. into the whole design; for that he 
might have assured himself of his secresy. Paul replied, with 
some indignation, he had given him a sufficient proof how ca¬ 
pable he was of concealing a secret from his wife. Lennard 
returned with some warmth—he had more reason to upbraid 
him, for that he had caused most of the quarrels between them 
by his strange conduct, and might (if they had not discovered 
the affair to each other) have been the occasion of their sepa¬ 
ration. Paul then said ”—But something now happened 
which put a stop to Dick’s reading, and of which we shall 
treat in the next chapter. 


2 95 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN WHICH THE HISTORY IS CONTINUED. 

J OSEPH ANDREWS had borne with great uneasiness the 
impertinence of Beau Didapper to Fanny, who had been 
talking pretty freely to her, and offering her settlements; 
but the respect to the company had restrained him from inter¬ 
fering whilst the beau confined himself to the use of his tongue 
only; but the said beau, watching an opportunity whilst the 
ladies’ eyes were disposed another way, offered a rudeness to 
her with his hands; which Joseph no sooner perceived than 
he presented him with so sound a box on the ear, that it 
conveyed him several paces from where he stood. The ladies 
immediately screamed out, rose from their chairs; and the 
beau, as soon as he recovered himself, drew his hanger; which 
Adams observing, snatched up the lid of a pot in his left hand, 
and, covering himself with it as with a shield, without any 
weapon of offence in his other hand, stept in before Joseph, 
and exposed himself to the enraged beau, who threatened such 
perdition and destruction, that it frightened the women, who 
were all got in a huddle together, out of their wits, even to 
hear his denunciations of vengeance. Joseph was of a dif¬ 
ferent complexion, and begged Adams to let his rival come 
on; for he had a good cudgel in his hand, and did not fear 
him. Fanny now fainted into Mrs Adams’s arms, and the 
whole room was in confusion, when Mr Booby, passing by 
Adams, who lay snug under the pot-lid, came up to Di¬ 
dapper, and insisted on his sheathing his hanger, promising 
he should have satisfaction; which Joseph declared he would 
give him, and fight him at any weapon whatever. The beau 
now sheathed his hanger, and taking out a pocket-glass, and 
vowing vengeance all the time, re-adjusted his hair; the par¬ 
son deposited his shield; and Joseph, running to Fanny, soon 
brought her back to life. Lady Booby chid Joseph for his 
insult on Didapper; but he answered, he would have attacked 
an army in the same cause. “What cause?” said the lady. 
“Madam,” answered Joseph, “he was rude to that young 

296 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

woman/’—“What,” says the lady, “I suppose he would have 
kissed the wench; and is a gentleman to be struck for such 
an offer ? I must tell you, Joseph, these airs do not become 
you.”—“ Madam,” said Mr Booby, “ I saw the whole affair, 
and I do not commend my brother; for I cannot perceive why 
he should take upon him to be this girl’s champion.”—“ I can 
commend him,” says Adams: “ he is a brave lad; and it be¬ 
comes any man to be the champion of the innocent; and he 
must be the basest coward who would not vindicate a woman 
with whom he is on the brink of marriage.”—“ Sir,” says Mr 
Booby, “ my brother is not a proper match for such a young 
woman as this.”—“ No,” says Lady Booby; “ nor do you, Mr. 
Adams, act in your proper character by encouraging any such 
doings; and I am very much surprised you should concern 
yourself in it. I think your wife and family your properer 
care.”—“ Indeed, madam, your ladyship says very true,” an¬ 
swered Mrs Adams; “ he talks a pack of nonsense, that the 
whole parish are his children. I am sure I don’t understand 
what he means by it; it would make some women suspect he 
had gone astray, but I acquit him of that; I can read scripture 
as well as he, and I never found that the parson was obliged 
to provide for other folks’ children; and besides, he is but 
a poor curate, and hath little enough, as your ladyship knows, 
for me and mine.”—“ You say very well, Mrs Adams,” quoth 
the Lady Booby, who had not spoke a word to her before; 
“you seem to be a very sensible woman; and I assure you, 
your husband is acting a very foolish part, and opposing his 
own interest, seeing my nephew is violently set against this 
match; and indeed I can’t blame him; it is by no means one 
suitable to our family.” In this manner the lady proceeded 
with Mrs Adams, whilst the beau hopped about the room, 
shaking his head, partly from pain and partly from anger; 
and Pamela was chiding Fanny for her assurance in aiming 
at such a match as her brother. Poor Fanny answered only 
with her tears, which had long since begun to wet her hand¬ 
kerchief ; which Joseph perceiving, took her by the arm, and 
wrapping it in his carried her off, swearing he would own no 
relation to any one who was an enemy to her he loved more 
than all the world. He went out with Fanny under his left 
arm, brandishing a cudgel in his right, and neither Mr Booby 

2 97 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


nor the beau thought proper to oppose hm. Lady Booby and 
her company made a very short stay behind him; for the 
lady’s bell now summoned them to dress; for which they 
had just time before dinner. 

Adams seemed now very much dejected, which his wife 
perceiving, began to apply some matrimonial balsam. She 
told him he had reason to be concerned, for that he had prob¬ 
ably ruined his family with his tricks; but perhaps he was 
grieved for the loss of his two children, Joseph and Fanny. 
His eldest daughter went on: “ Indeed, father, it is very hard 
to bring strangers here to eat your children’s bread out of 
their mouths. You have kept them ever since they came 
home; and, for anything I see to the contrary, may keep 
them a month longer; are you obliged to give her meat, tho’f 
she was never so handsome? But I don’t see she is so much 
handsomer than other people. If people were to be kept for 
their beauty, she would scarce fare better than her neigh¬ 
bours, I believe. As for Mr Joseph, I have nothing to say: 
he is a young man of honest principles, and will pay some 
time or other for what he hath; but for the girl,—why doth 
she not return to her place she, ran away from ? I would not 
give such a vagabond slut a halfpenny though I had a 
million of money; no, though she was starving.” “Indeed 
but I would,” cries little Dick; “and, father, rather than 
poor Fanny shall be starved, I will give her all this bread 
and cheese”—(offering what he held in his hand). Adams 
smiled on the boy, and told him he rejoiced to see he was a 
Christian; and that, if he had a halfpenny in his pocket, he 
would have given it him; telling him it was his duty to 
look upon all his neighbours as his brothers and sisters, and 
love them accordingly. “ Yes, papa,” says he, “ I love her 
better than my sisters, for she is handsomer than any of 
them.” “ Is she so, saucebox?” says the sister, giving him a 
box on the ear; which the father would probably have re¬ 
sented, had not Joseph, Fanny, and the pedlar at that instant 
returned together. Adams bid his wife prepare some food 
for their dinner; she said, truly she could not, she had 
something else to do. Adams rebuked her for disputing 
his commands, and quoted many texts of scripture to prove 
that the husband is the head of the wife, and she is to 

298 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


submit and obey. The wife answered, it was blasphemy to 
talk scripture out of church; that such things were very 
proper to be said in the pulpit, but that it was profane to 
talk them in common discourse. Joseph told Mr Adams 
he was not come with any design to give him or Mrs 
Adams any trouble; but to desire the favour of all their 
company to the George (an alehouse in the parish), where 
he had bespoke a piece of bacon and greens for their dinner. 
Mrs Adams, who was a very good sort of woman, only 
rather too strict in economics, readily accepted this invitation, 
as did the parson himself by her example; and away they 
all walked together, not omitting little Dick, to whom Joseph 
gave a shilling when he heard of his intended liberality to 
Fanny. 


CHAPTER XII. 

WHERE THE GOOD-NATURED READER WILL SEE SOMETHING 
WHICH WILL GIVE HIM NO GREAT PLEASURE. 

T HE pedlar had been very inquisitive from the time he 
had first heard that the great house in this parish be¬ 
longed to the Lady Booby, and had learnt that she was the 
widow of Sir Thomas, and that Sir Thomas had bought 
Fanny, at about the age of three or four years, of a travelling 
woman; and, now their homely but hearty meal was ended, 
he told Fanny he believed he could acquaint her with her pa¬ 
rents. The whole company, especially she herself, started at 
this offer of the pedlar’s. He then proceeded thus, while they 
all lent their strictest attention:—“Though I am now con¬ 
tented with this humble way of getting my livelihood, I was 
formerly a gentleman; for so all those of my profession are 
called. In a word, I was a drummer in an Irish regiment of 
foot. Whilst I was in this honourable station I attended an 
officer of our regiment into England a recruiting. In our 
march from Bristol to Froome (for since the decay of the 
woollen trade the clothing towns have furnished the army 
with a great number of recruits) we overtook on the road a 

299 


% 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


woman, who seemed to be about thirty years old or there¬ 
abouts, not very handsome, but well enough for a soldier. 
As we came up to her, she mended her pace, and, falling 
into discourse with our ladies (for every man of the party, 
namely, a serjeant, two private men, and a drum, were pro¬ 
vided with their woman except myself), she continued to 
travel on with us. I, perceiving she must fall to my lot, 
advanced presently to her, made love to her in our military 
way, and quickly succeeded to my wishes. We struck a bar¬ 
gain within a mile, and lived together as man and wife to 
her dying day/’ “I suppose,” says Adams, interrupting him, 
“you were married with a licence; for I don’t see how you 
could contrive to have the banns published while you were 
marching from place to place.” “No, sir,” said the pedlar, 
“we took a licence to go to bed together without any banns.” 
“ Aye! aye! ” said the parson; “ ex necessitate , a licence may 
be allowable enough; but surely, surely, the other is the 
more regular and eligible way.” The pedlar proceeded thus: 
“ she returned with me to our regiment, and removed with us 
from quarters to quarters, till at last, whilst we lay at Gallo¬ 
way, she fell ill of a fever and died. When she was on her 
death-bed she called me to her, and, crying bitterly, declared 
she could not depart this world without discovering a secret 
to me, which, she said, was the only sin which sat heavy on 
her heart. She said she had formerly travelled in a company 
of gipsies, who had made a practice of stealing away chil¬ 
dren; that for her own part, she had been only once guilty 
of the crime; which, she said, she lamented more than all 
the rest of her sins, since probably it might have occasioned 
the death of the parents; for, added she, it is almost im¬ 
possible to describe the beauty of the young creature, which 
was about a year and a half old when I kidnapped it. We 
kept her (for she was a girl) above two years in our company, 
when I sold her myself, for three guineas, to Sir Thomas 
Booby, in Somersetshire. Now, you know whether there 
are any more of that name in this county.” “ Yes,” says 
Adams, “there are several Boobys who are squires, but I be¬ 
lieve no baronet now alive; besides, it answers so exactly in 
every point, there is no room for doubt; but you have forgot 

3 °° 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


to tell us the parents from whom the child was stolen.” 
“The name,” answered the pedlar, “was Andrews. They 
lived about thirty miles from the squire; and she told me 
that I might be sure to find them out by one circumstance; 
for that they had a daughter of a very strange name, Pamela, 
or Pamala; some pronounced it one way, and some the 
other.” Fanny, who had changed colour at the first mention 
of the name, now fainted away; Joseph turned pale, and 
poor Dicky began to roar; the parson fell on his knees, and 
ejaculated many thanksgivings that this discovery had been 
made before the dreadful sin of incest was committed; and 
the pedlar was struck with amazement, not being able to ac¬ 
count for all this confusion; the cause of which was presently 
opened by the parson’s daughter, who was the only uncon¬ 
cerned person (for the mother was chafing Fanny’s temples, 
and taking the utmost care of her) : and, indeed, Fanny was 
the only creature whom the daughter would not have pitied 
in her situation; wherein, though we compassionate her our¬ 
selves, we shall leave her for a little while, and pay a short 
visit to Lady Booby. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE HISTORY, RETURNING TO THE LADY BOOBY, GIVES SOME 
ACCOUNT OF THE TERRIBLE CONFLICT IN HER BREAST BE¬ 
TWEEN LOVE AND PRIDE; WITH WHAT HAPPENED ON THE 
PRESENT DISCOVERY. 

HE lady sat down with her company to dinner, but ate 



JL nothing. As soon as her cloth was removed she whis¬ 
pered Pamela that she was taken a little ill, and desired her to 
entertain her husband and beau Didapper. She then went up 
into her chamber, sent for Slipslop, threw herself on the bed 
in the agonies of love, rage, and despair; nor could she con¬ 
ceal these boiling passions longer without bursting. Slip¬ 
slop now approached her bed, and asked how her ladyship 
did; but, instead of revealing her disorder, as she intended, 
she entered into a long encomium on the beauty and 


3 QI 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


virtues of Joseph Andrews; ending, at last, with express¬ 
ing her concern that so much tenderness should be thrown 
away on so despicable an object as Fanny. Slipslop, 
well knowing how to humour her mistress’s frensy, pro¬ 
ceeded to repeat, with exaggeration, if possible, all her mis¬ 
tress had said, and concluded with a wish that Joseph had 
been a gentleman, and that she could see her lady in the arms 
of such a husband. The lady then started from the bed, and, 
taking a turn or two across the room, cried out, with a deep 
sigh, “Sure he would make any woman happy!” “Your lady¬ 
ship,” says she, “ would be the happiest woman in the world 
with him. A fig for custom and nonsense! What ’vails 
what people say? Shall I be afraid of eating sweetmeats be¬ 
cause people may say I have a sweet tooth ? If I had a mind 
to marry a man, all the world should not hinder me. Your 
ladyship hath no parents to tutelar your infections; besides, he 
is of your ladyship’s family now, and as good a gentleman as 
any in the country; and why should not a woman follow her 
mind as well as man ? Why should not your ladyship marry 
the brother as well as your nephew the sister. I am sure, 
if it was a fragrant crime, I would not persuade your lady¬ 
ship to it.”—“But, dear Slipslop,” answered the lady, “if I 
could prevail on myself to commit such a weakness, there is 
that cursed Fanny in the way, whom the idiot—O how I hate 
and despise him!”—“She! a little ugly minx,” cries Slipslop; 
“leave her to me. I suppose your ladyship hath heard of Jo¬ 
seph’s fitting with one of Mr Didapper’s servants about her; 
and his master hath ordered them to carry her away by force 
this evening. I’ll take care they shall not want assistance. 
I was talking with this gentleman, who was below, just when 
your ladyship sent for me.”—“Go back,” says the Lady Booby, 
“this instant, for I expect Mr Didapper will soon be going. 
Do all you can; for I am resolved this wench shall not be in 
our family: I will endeavour to return to the company; but 
let me know as soon as she is carried off.” Slipslop went 
away; and her mistress began to arraign her own conduct in 
the following manner: 

“What am I doing? How do I suffer this passion to 
creep imperceptibly upon me! How many days are past 

302 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

since I could have submitted to ask myself the question?— 
Marry a footman! Distraction! Can I afterwards bear the 
eyes of my acquaintance? But I can retire from them; re¬ 
tire with one in whom I propose more happiness than the 
world without him can give me! Retire—to feed continu¬ 
ally on beauties which my inflamed imagination sickens with 
eagerly gazing on; to satisfy every appetite, every desire, 
with their utmost wish. Ha! and do I doat thus on a foot¬ 
man? I despise, I detest my passion.—Yet why? Is he not 
generous, gentle, kind?—Kind! to whom? to the meanest 
wretch, a creature below my consideration. Doth he not— 
yes, he doth prefer her. Curse his beauties, and the little low 
heart that possesses them; which can basely descend to this 
despicable wench, and be ungratefully deaf to all the honours 
I do him. And can I then love this monster? No, I will 
tear his image from my bosom, tread on him, spurn him. I 
will have those pitiful charms, which now I despise, mangled 
in my sight; for I will not suffer the little jade I hate to riot 
in the beauties I contemn. No; though I despise him myself, 
though I would spurn him from my feet, was he to languish 
at them, no other should taste the happiness I scorn. Why 
do I say happiness ? To me it would be misery. To sacrifice 
my reputation, my character, my rank in life, to the indul¬ 
gence of a mean and vile appetite! How I detest the thought! 
How much more exquisite is the pleasure resulting from the 
reflection of virtue and prudence than the faint relish of what 
flows from vice and folly! Whither did I suffer this improper, 
this mad passion to hurry me, only by neglecting to summon 
the aids of reason to my assistance ? Reason, which hath now 
set before me my desires in their proper colours, and imme¬ 
diately helped me to expel them. Yes, I thank Heaven and 
my pride, I have now perfectly conquered this unworthy pas¬ 
sion ; and if there was no obstacle in its way, my pride would 
disdain any pleasures which could be the consequence of so 
base, so mean, so vulgar—” Slipslop returned at this instant 
in a violent hurry, and with the utmost eagerness, cried out, 
“O madam! I have strange news. Tom the footman is 
just come from the George; where, it seems, Joseph and the 
rest of them are a jinketting; and he says there is a strange 

3°3 


THE ADVENTURES OE 


man who hath discovered that Fanny and Joseph are brother 
and sister.”—“How, Slipslop!” cries the lady, in a surprise.— 
“I had not time, madam,” cries Slipslop, “to inquire about 
particles, but Tom says it is most certainly true.” 

This unexpected account entirely obliterated all those ad¬ 
mirable reflections which the supreme power of reason had 
so wisely made just before. In short, when despair, which 
had more share in producing the resolutions of hatred we 
have seen taken, began to retreat, the lady hesitated a moment, 
and then, forgetting all* the purport of her soliloquy, dis¬ 
missed her woman again, with orders to bid Tom attend her in 
the parlour, whither she now hastened to acquaint Pamela 
with the news. Pamela said she could not believe it; for 
she had never heard that her mother had lost any child, or 
that she had ever had any more than Joseph and herself. 
The lady flew into a violent rage with her, and talked of up¬ 
starts and disowning relations who had so lately been on a 
level with her. Pamela made no answer; but her husband, 
taking up her cause, severely reprimanded his aunt for her 
behaviour to his wife: he told her, if it had been earlier in 
the evening she should not have staid a moment longer in 
her house; that he was convinced, if this young woman could 
be proved her sister, she would readily embrace her as such, 
and he himself would do the same. He then desired the fel¬ 
low might be sent for, and the young woman with him, which 
Lady Booby immediately ordered; and, thinking proper to 
make some apology to Pamela for what she had said, it was 
readily accepted, and all things reconciled. 

The pedlar now attended, as did Fanny and Joseph, who 
would not quit her; the parson likewise was induced, not 
only by curiosity, of which he had no small portion, but by 
his duty, as he apprehended it, to follow them; for he con¬ 
tinued all the way to exhort them, who were now breaking 
their hearts, to offer up thanksgivings, and be joyful for so 
miraculous an escape. 

When they arrived at Booby-Hall they were presently 
called into the parlour, where the pedlar repeated the same 
story he had told before, and insisted on the truth of every 
circumstance; so that all who heard him were extremely well 

304 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


satisfied of the truth, except Pamela, who imagined, as she 
had never heard either of her parents mention such an acci¬ 
dent, that it must be certainly false; and except the Lady 
Booby, who suspected the falsehood of the story from her 
ardent desire that it should be true; and Joseph, who feared 
its truth, from his earnest wishes that it might prove false. 

Mr Booby now desired them all to suspend their curiosity 
and absolute belief or disbelief till the next morning, when 
he expected old Mr Andrews and his wife to fetch himself 
and Pamela home in his coach, and then they might be cer¬ 
tain of perfectly knowing the truth or falsehood of this re¬ 
lation ; in which, he said, as there were many strong circum¬ 
stances to induce their credit, so he could not perceive any 
interest the pedlar could have in inventing it, or in endeav¬ 
ouring to impose such a falsehood on them. 

The Lady Booby, who was very little used to such com¬ 
pany, entertained them all— viz. her nephew, his wife, her 
brother and sister, the beau, and the parson, with great good 
humour at her own table. As to the pedlar, she ordered him 
to be made as welcome as possible by her servants. All the 
company in the parlour, except the disappointed lovers, who 
sat sullen and silent, were full of mirth; for Mr Booby had 
prevailed on Joseph to ask Mr Didapper’s pardon, with which 
he was perfectly satisfied. Many jokes passed between the 
beau and the parson, chiefly on each other’s dress; these af¬ 
forded much diversion to the company. Pamela chid her 
brother Joseph for the concern which he exprest at discov¬ 
ering a new sister. She said, if he loved Fanny, as he ought, 
with a pure affection, he had no reason to lament being re¬ 
lated to her.—Upon which Adams began to discourse on Pla¬ 
tonic love; whence he made a quick transition to the joys in 
the next world, and concluded with strongly asserting that 
there was no such thing as pleasure in this. At which Pamela 
and her husband smiled on one another. 

This happy pair proposing to retire (for no other person 
gave the least symptom of desiring rest), they all repaired to 
several beds provided for them in the same house; nor was 
Adams himself suffered to go home, it being a stormy night. 
Fanny indeed often begged she might go home with the 

20 3°S 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


parson; but her stay was so strongly insisted on, that she at 
last, by Joseph’s advice, consented. 

/ ' 'v ■ • 


CHAPTER XIV. 

CONTAINING SEVERAL CURIOUS NIGHT-ADVENTURES, IN WHICH 
MR ADAMS FELL INTO MANY HAIR-BREADTH ’SCAPES, PARTLY 
OWING TO HIS GOODNESS, AND PARTLY TO HIS INADVERTENCY. 

ABOUT an hour after they had all separated (it being now 
Jl\. past three in the morning), beau Didapper, whose pas¬ 
sion for Fanny permitted him not to close his eyes, but had 
employed his imagination in contrivances how to satisfy his 
desires, at last hit on a method by which he hoped to effect it. 
He had ordered his servant to bring him word where Fanny 
lay, and had received his information; he therefore arose, put 
on his breeches and nightgown, and stole softly along the 
gallery which led to her apartment; and, being come to the 
door, as he imagined it, he opened it with the least noise 
possible and entered the chamber. A savour now invaded his 
nostrils which he did not expect in the room of so sweet a 
young creature, and which might have probably had no good 
effect on a cooler lover. However, he groped out the bed with 
difficulty, for there was not a glimpse of light, and, opening the 
curtains, he whispered in Joseph’s voice (for he was an excel¬ 
lent mimic), “Fanny, my angel! I am come to inform thee 
that I have discovered the falsehood of the story we last night 
heard. I am no longer thy brother, but the lover; nor will I 
be delayed the enjoyment of thee one moment longer. You 
have sufficient assurances of my constancy not to doubt my 
marrying you, and it would be want of love to deny me the 
possession of thy charms.”—So saying, he disencumbered 
himself from the little clothes he had on, and, leaping into 
bed, embraced his angel, as he conceived her, with great rap¬ 
ture. If he was surprized at receiving no answer, he was 
no less pleased to find his hug returned with equal ardour. 
He remained not long in this sweet confusion; for both he 
and his paramour presently discovered their error. Indeed 

3°6 



JOSEPH ANDREWS 


it was no other than the accomplished Slipslop whom he had 
engaged; but, though she immediately knew the person whom 
she had mistaken for Joseph, he was at a loss to guess at the 
representative of Fanny. He had so little seen or taken no¬ 
tice of this gentlewoman, that light itself would have afforded 
him no assistance in his conjecture. Beau Didapper no sooner 
had perceived his mistake than he attempted to escape from 
the bed with much greater haste than he had made to it; 
but the watchful Slipslop prevented him. For that prudent 
woman, being disappointed of those delicious offerings which 
her fancy had promised her pleasure, resolved to make an 
immediate sacrifice to her virtue. Indeed she wanted an op¬ 
portunity to heal some wounds, which her late conduct had, 
she feared, given her reputation; and, as she had a wonderful 
presence of mind, she conceived the person of the unfortunate 
beau to be luckily thrown in her way to restore her lady’s 
opinion of her impregnable chastity. At that instant, there¬ 
fore, when he offered to leap from the bed, she caught fast 
hold of his shirt, at the same time roaring out, “ O thou 
villain! who hast attacked my chastity, and, I believe, ruined 
me in my sleep; I will swear a rape against thee, I will 
prosecute thee with the utmost vengeance.” The beau at¬ 
tempted to get loose, but she held him fast, and when he 
struggled she cried out “ Murder! murder! rape! robbery! 
ruin! ” At which words, parson Adams, who lay in the next 
chamber, wakeful, and meditating on the pedlar’s discovery, 
jumped out of bed, and, without staying to put a rag of clothes 
on, hastened into the apartment whence the cries proceeded. 
He made directly to the bed in the dark, where, laying hold of 
the beau’s skin (for Slipslop had torn his shirt almost off), 
and finding his skin extremely soft, and hearing him in 
a low voice begging Slipslop to let him go, he no longer 
doubted but this was the young woman in danger of ravish¬ 
ing, and immediately falling on the bed, and laying hold on 
Slipslop’s chin, where he found a rough beard, his belief was 
confirmed; he therefore rescued the beau, who presently made 
his escape, and then, turning towards Slipslop, received such 
a cuff on his chops, that, his wrath kindling instantly, he 
offered to return the favour so stoutly, that had poor Slipslop 
received the fist, which in the dark passed by her and fell on 

3°7 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


the pillow, she would most probably have given up the ghost. 
Adams, missing his blow, fell directly on Slipslop, who cuffed 
and scratched as well as she could; nor was he behindhand 
with her in his endeavours, but happily the darkness of the 
night befriended her. She then cried she was a woman; but 
Adams answered, she was rather the devil, and if she was he 
would grapple with him; and, being again irritated by another 
stroke on the chops, he gave her such a remembrance in the 
guts, that she began to roar loud enough to be heard all over 
the house. Adams then, seizing her by the hair (for her 
double-clout had fallen off in the scuffle), pinned her head 
down to the bolster, and then both called for lights together. 
The Lady Booby, who was as wakeful as any of her guests, 
had been alarmed from the beginning; and, being a woman 
of a bold spirit, she slipt on a nightgown, petticoat, and slip¬ 
pers, and taking a candle, which always burnt in her chamber, 
in her hand, she walked undauntedly to Slipslop’s room; 
where she entered just at the instant as Adams had discovered, 
by the two mountains which Slipslop carried before her, that 
he was concerned with a female. He then concluded her to 
be a witch, and said he fancied those breasts gave suck to a 
legion of devils. Slipslop, seeing Lady Booby enter the room, 
cried help! or I am ravished, with a most audible voice: and 
Adams, perceiving the light, turned hastily, and saw the lady 
(as she did him) just as she came to the feet of the bed; nor 
did her modesty, when she found the naked condition of 
Adams, suffer her to approach farther. She then began to 
revile the parson as the wickedest of all men, and particularly 
railed at his impudence in choosing her house for the scene 
of his debaucheries, and her own woman for the object of his 
bestiality. Poor Adams had before discovered the counte¬ 
nance of his bedfellow, and, now first recollecting he was 
naked, he was no less confounded than Lady Booby herself, 
and immediately whipt under the bed-clothes, whence the 
chaste Slipslop endeavoured in vain to shut him out. Then 
putting forth his head, on which, by way of ornament, he 
wore a flannel nightcap, he protested his innocence, and asked 
ten thousand pardons of Mrs Slipslop for the blows he had 
struck her, vowing he had mistaken her for a witch. Lady 
Booby, then casting her eyes on the ground, observed some- 

308 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


thing sparkle with great lustre, which, when she had taken 
it up, appeared to be a very fine pair of diamond buttons 
for the sleeves. A little farther she saw lie the sleeve itself 
of a shirt with lace ruffles. “ Heyday! ” says she, “ what is 
the meaning of this ? ” “ O, madam/’ says Slipslop, “ I don’t 
know what hath happened, I have been so terrified. Here 
may have been a dozen men in the room.” “To whom be¬ 
longs this laced shirt and jewels?” says the lady. “Un¬ 
doubtedly,” cries the parson, “ to the young gentleman whom 
I mistook for a woman on coming into the room, whence 
proceeded all the subsequent mistakes; for if I had suspected 
him for a man, I would have seized him, had he been an¬ 
other Hercules, though, indeed, he seems rather to resemble 
Hylas.” He then gave an account of the reason of his rising 
from bed, and the rest, till the lady came into the room; at 
which, and the figures of Slipslop and her gallant, whose 
heads only were visible at the opposite corners of the bed, 
she could not refrain from laughter; nor did Slipslop persist 
in accusing the parson of any motions towards a rape. The 
lady therefore desired him to return to his bed as soon as she 
was departed, and then ordering Slipslop to rise and attend her 
in her own room, she returned herself thither. When she 
was gone, Adams renewed his petitions for pardon to Mrs 
Slipslop, who, with a most Christian temper, not only forgave, 
but began to move with much courtesy towards him, which 
he taking as a hint to be gone, immediately quitted the bed, 
and made the best of his way towards his own; but unluckily, 
instead of turning to the right, he turned to the left, and went 
to the apartment where Fanny lay, who (as the reader may 
remember) had not 'slept a wink the preceding night, and who 
was so hagged out with what had happened to her in the day, 
that, notwithstanding all thoughts of her Joseph, she was fallen 
into so profound a sleep, that all the noise in the adjoining 
room had not been able to disturb her. Adams groped out the 
bed, and, turning the clothes down softly, a custom Mrs 
Adams had long accustomed him to, crept in, and deposited 
his carcase on the bed-post, a place which that good woman 
had always assigned him. 

As the cat or lap-dog of some lovely nymph, for whom ten 
thousand lovers languish, lies quietly by the side of the charm- 

30 9 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


ing maid, and, ignorant of the scene of delight on which they 
repose, meditates the future capture of a mouse, or surprizal 
of a plate of bread and butter: so Adams lay by the side of 
Fanny, ignorant of the paradise to which he was so near; nor 
could the emanation of sweets which flowed from her breath 
overpower the fumes of tobacco which played in the parson’s 
nostrils. And now sleep had not overtaken the good man, 
when Joseph, who had secretly appointed Fanny to come to 
her at the break of day, rapped softly at the chamber-door, 
which when he had repeated twice, Adams cried, “ Come in, 
whoever you are.” Joseph thought he had mistaken the door, 
though she had given him the most exact directions; however, 
knowing his friend’s voice, he opened it, and saw some female 
vestments lying on a chair. Fanny waking at the same instant, 
and stretching out her hand on Adams’s beard, she cried out,— 
“ O heavens ! where am I ? ” “ Bless me! where am I ? ” said 
the parson. Then Fanny screamed, Adams leapt out of bed, 
and Joseph stood, as the tragedians call it, like the statue of 
Surprize. “ How came she into my room ? ” cried Adams. 
“ How came you into hers ? ” cried Joseph, in an astonish¬ 
ment. “ I know nothing of the matter,” answered Adams, 
“ but that she is a vestal for me. As I am a Christian, I know 
not whether she is a man or woman. He is an infidel who 
doth not believe in witchcraft. They as surely exist now as 
in the days of Saul. My clothes are bewitched away too, and 
Fanny’s brought into their place.” For he still insisted he 
was in his own apartment; but Fanny denied it vehemently, 
and said his attempting to persuade Joseph of such a false¬ 
hood convinced her of his wicked designs. “ How! ” said 
Joseph in a rage, “hath he offered any rudeness to you?” 
She answered—she could not accuse him of any more than 
villanously stealing to bed to her, which she thought rudeness 
sufficient, and what no man would do without a wicked in¬ 
tention. 

Joseph’s great opinion of Adams was not easily to be stag¬ 
gered, and when he heard from Fanny that no harm had 
happened he grew a little cooler; yet still he was confounded, 
and, as he knew the house, and that the women’s apartments 
were on this side Mrs Slipslop’s room, and the men’s on the 
other, he was convinced that he was in Fanny’s chamber. 


3 IQ 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


Assuring Adams therefore of this truth, he begged him to 
give some account how he came there. Adams then, standing 
in his shirt, which did not offend Fanny, as the curtains 
of the bed were drawn, related all that had happened; and 
when he had ended Joseph told him,—it was plain he had 
mistaken by turning to the right instead of the left. “ Odso! ” 
cries Adams, “ that’s true: as sure as sixpence, you have hit 
on the very thing.” He then traversed the room, rubbing 
his hands, and begged Fanny’s pardon, assuring her he did 
not know whether she was man or woman. That innocent 
creature, firmly believing all he said, told him she was no 
longer angry, and begged Joseph to conduct him into his 
own apartment, where he should stay himself till she had 
put her clothes on. Joseph and Adams accordingly departed, 
and the latter soon was convinced of the mistake he had 
committed; however, whilst he was dressing himself, he 
often asserted he believed in the power of witchcraft not¬ 
withstanding, and did not see how a Christian cpuld deny it. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE ARRIVAL OF GAFFAR AND GAM MAR ANDREWS, WITH 
ANOTHER PERSON NOT MUCH EXPECTED; AND A PERFECT 
SOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES RAISED BY THE PEDLAR. 

/VS soon as Fanny was drest Joseph returned to her, and 
they had a long conversation together, the conclusion of 
which was, that, if they found themselves to be really brother 
and sister, they vowed a perpetual celibacy, and to live to¬ 
gether all their days, and indulge a Platonic friendship for 
each other. 

The company were all very merry at breakfast, and Joseph 
and Fanny rather more cheerful than the preceding night. 
The Lady Booby produced the diamond button, which the 
beau most readily owned, and alleged that he was very subject 
to walk in his sleep. Indeed, he was far from being ashamed 
of his amour, and rather endeavoured to insinuate that more 

3 11 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


than was really true had passed between him and the fair 
Slipslop. 

Their tea was scarce over when news came of the arrival 
of old Mr Andrews and his wife. They were immediately 
introduced, and kindly received by the Lady Booby, whose 
heart went now pit-a-pat, as did those of Joseph and Fanny. 
They felt, perhaps, little less anxiety in this interval than 
CEdipus himself, whilst his fate was revealing. 

Mr Booby first opened the cause by informing the old gen¬ 
tleman that he had a child in the company more than he knew 
of, and, taking Fanny by the hand, told him, this was that 
daughter of his who had been stolen away by gipsies in her 
infancy. Mr Andrews, after expressing some astonishment, 
assured his honour that he had never lost a daughter by gip¬ 
sies, nor ever had any other children than Joseph and Pamela. 
These words were a cordial to the two lovers; but had a dif¬ 
ferent effect on Lady Booby. She ordered the pedlar to be 
called, who recounted his story as he had done before.—At 
the end of which, old Mrs Andrews, running to Fanny, em¬ 
braced her, crying out, “ She is, she is my child! ” The 
company were all amazed at this disagreement between the 
man and his wife; and the blood had now forsaken the cheeks 
of the lovers, when the old woman, turning to her husband, 
who was more surprized than all the rest, and having a little 
recovered her own spirits, delivered herself as follows: “You 
may remember, my dear, when you went a serjeant to Gib¬ 
raltar, you left me big with child; you stayed abroad, you 
know, upwards of three years. In your absence I was 
brought to bed, I verily believe, of this daughter, whom I 
am sure I have reason to remember, for I suckled her at this 
very breast till the day she was stolen from me. One after¬ 
noon, when the child was about a year, or a year and a half 
old, or thereabouts, two gipsy-women came to the door and 
offered to tell my fortune. One of them had a child in her 
lap. I showed them my hand, and desired to know if you 
was ever to come home again, which I remember as well as 
if it was but yesterday: they faithfully promised me you 
should.—I left the girl in the cradle, and went to draw them 
a cup of liquor, the best I had: when I returned with the pot 

3 12 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

(I am sure I was not absent longer than whilst I am telling 
it to you) the women were gone. I was afraid they had stolen 
something, and looked and looked, but to no purpose, and, 
Heaven knows, I had very little for them to steal. At last, 
hearing the child cry in the cradle, I went to take it up—but, 
O the living! how was I surprized to find, instead of my own 
girl that I had put into the cradle, who was as fine a fat 
thriving child as you shall see in a summer’s day, a poor 
sickly boy, that did not seem to have an hour to live. I ran 
out, pulling my hair off, and crying like any mad after the 
women, but never could hear a word of them from that day 
to this. When I came back the poor infant (which is our Jo¬ 
seph there, as stout as he now stands) lifted up his eyes upon 
me so piteously, that, to be sure, notwithstanding my passion, 
I could not find in my heart to do it any mischief. A neigh¬ 
bour of mine, happening to come in at the same time, and 
hearing the case, advised me to take care of this poor child, 
and God would perhaps one day restore me my own. Upon 
which I took the child up, and suckled it to be sure, all the 
world as if it had been born of my own natural body; and as 
true as I am alive, in a little time I loved the boy all to nothing 
as if it had been my own girl.—Well, as I was saying, times 
growing very hard, I having two children and nothing but 
my own work, which was little enough God knows, to main¬ 
tain them, was obliged to ask relief of the parish; but, in¬ 
stead of giving it me, they removed me, by justices’ warrants, 
fifteen miles, to the place where I now live, where I had not 
been long settled before you came home. Joseph (for that 
was the name I gave him myself—the Lord knows whether 
he was baptised or no,^or by what name), Joseph, I say, 
seemed to me about five years old when you returned; for I 
believe he is two or three years older than our daughter here 
(for I am thoroughly convinced she is the same) ; and wheu 
you saw him you said he was a chopping boy, without ever 
minding his age; and so I, seeing you did not suspect any¬ 
thing of the matter, thought I might e’en as well keep it to 
myself, for fear you should not love him as well as I did. 
And all this is veritably true, and I will take my oath of it 
before any justice in the kingdom.” 

3 T 3 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


The pedlar, who had been summoned by the order of Lady 
Booby, listened with the utmost attention to Gammar An¬ 
drews’s story; and, when she had finished, asked her if the 
supposititious child had no mark on its breast? To which 
she answered, yes, he had as fine a strawberry as ever grew 
in a garden. This Joseph acknowledged, and, unbuttoning 
his coat, at the intercession of the company, showed to them. 
“ Well,” says Gafifar Andrews, who was a comical sly old 
fellow, and very likely desired to have no more children than 
he could keep, “ you have proved, I think, very plainly, that 
this boy doth not belong to us; but how are you certain that 
the girl is ours ? ” The parson then brought the pedlar for¬ 
ward, and desired him to repeat the story which he had com¬ 
municated to him the preceding day at the ale-house; which 
he complied with, and related what the reader, as well as 
Mr Adams, hath seen before. He then confirmed, from his 
wife’s report, all the circumstances of the exchange, and of 
the strawberry on Joseph’s breast. At the repetition of the 
word strawberry, Adams, who had seen it without any emo¬ 
tion, started and cried, “ Bless me! something comes into my 
head.” But before he had time to bring anything out a ser¬ 
vant called him forth. When he was gone the pedlar assured 
Joseph that his parents were persons of much greater circum¬ 
stances than those he had hitherto mistaken for such; for that 
he had been stolen from a gentleman’s house by those whom 
they call gipsies, and had been kept by them during a whole 
year, when, looking on him as in a dying condition, they had 
exchanged him for the other healthier child, in the manner 
before related. He said, as to the name of his father, his 
wife had either never known or forgot it; but that she had ac¬ 
quainted him he lived about forty miles from the place where 
the exchange had been made, and which way, promising to 
spare no pains in endeavouring with him to discover the place. 

But Fortune, which seldom doth good or ill, or makes 
men happy or miserable, by halves, resolved to spare him 
this labour. The reader may please to recollect that Mr Wil¬ 
son had intended a journey to the west, in which he was to 
pass through Mr Adams’s parish, and had promised to call 
on him. He was now arrived at the Lady Booby’s gates for 

3*4 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


that purpose, being directed thither from the parson’s house, 
and had sent in the servant whom we have above seen call 
Mr Adams forth. This had no sooner mentioned the dis¬ 
covery of a stolen child, and had uttered the word strawberry, 
than Mr Wilson, with wildness in his looks, and the utmost 
eagerness in his words, begged to be shown into the room, 
where he entered without the least regard to any of the com¬ 
pany but Joseph, and, embracing him with a complexion all 
pale and trembling, desired to see the mark on his breast; 
the parson followed him capering, rubbing his hands, and 
crying out, Hie est quem queeris; inventus est, &c. Joseph 
complied with the request of Mr Wilson, who no sooner saw 
the mark than, abandoning himself to the most extravagant 
rapture of passion, he embraced Joseph with inexpressible 
ecstasy, and cried out in tears of joy, “ I have discovered my 
son, I have him again in my arms! ” Joseph was not suffi¬ 
ciently apprized yet to taste the same delight with his father 
(for so in reality he was) ; however, he returned some warmth 
to his embraces: but he no sooner perceived, from his father’s 
account, the agreement of every circumstance, of person, time, 
and place, than he threw himself at his feet, and, embracing 
his knees, with tears begged his blessing, which was given 
with much affection, and received with such respect, mixed 
with such tenderness on both sides, that it affected all present; 
but none so much as Lady Booby, who left the room in an 
agony, which was but too much perceived, and not very chari¬ 
tably accounted for by some of the company. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

BEING THE LAST, IN WHICH THIS TRUE HISTORY IS 
BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION. 

F ANNY was very little behind her Joseph in the duty she 
exprest towards her parents, and the joy she evidenced 
in discovering them. Gammar Andrews kissed her, and said, 
she was heartily glad to see her; but for her part, she could 

3*5 



THE ADVENTURES OF 


never love any one better than Joseph. Gaffar Andrews tes¬ 
tified no remarkable emotion: he blessed and kissed her, 
but complained bitterly that he wanted his pipe, not having 
had a whiff that morning. 

Mr Booby, who knew nothing of his aunt’s fondness, im¬ 
puted her abrupt departure to her pride, and disdain of the 
family into which he was married; he was therefore desirous 
to be gone with the utmost celerity; and now, having con¬ 
gratulated Mr Wilson and Joseph on the discovery, he sa¬ 
luted Fanny, called her sister, and introduced her as such to 
Pamela, who behaved with great decency on the occasion. 

He now sent a message to his aunt, who returned that she 
wished him a good journey, but was too disordered to see any 
company: he therefore prepared to set out, having invited 
Mr Wilson to his house; and Pamela and Joseph both so 
insisted on his complying, that he at last consented, having 
first obtained a messenger from Mr Booby to acquaint his 
wife with the news; which, as he knew it would render her 
completely happy, he could not prevail on himself "to delay 
a moment in acquainting her with. 

The company were ranged in this manner: the two old 
people, with their two daughters, rode in the coach; the 
squire, Mr Wilson, Joseph, parson Adams, and the pedlar, 
proceeded on horseback. 

In their way, Joseph informed his father of his intended 
match with Fanny; to which, though he expressed some re¬ 
luctance at first, on the eagerness of his son’s instances he 
consented; saying, if she was so good a creature as she ap¬ 
peared, and he described her, he thought the disadvantages 
of birth and fortune might be compensated. He however 
insisted on the match being deferred till he had seen his 
mother; in which Joseph perceiving him positive, with 
great duty obeyed him, to the great delight of parson Adams, 
who by these means saw an opportunity of fulfilling the 
church forms, and marrying his parishioners without a li¬ 
cence. 

Mr Adams, greatly exulting on this occasion (for such 
ceremonies were matters of no small moment with him), ac¬ 
cidentally gave spurs to his horse, which the generous beast 
disdaining,—for he was of high mettle, and had been used 

3 l6 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 

to more expert riders than the gentleman who at present be¬ 
strode him, for whose horsemanship he had perhaps some 
contempt,—immediately ran away full speed, and played 
so many antic tricks that he tumbled the parson from his 
back; which Joseph perceiving, came to his relief. 

This accident afforded infinite merriment to the servants, 
and no less frighted poor Fanny, who beheld him as he 
passed by the coach; but the mirth of the one and terror 
of the other were soon determined, when the parson declared 
he had received no damage. 

The horse having freed himself from his unworthy rider, 
as he probably thought him, proceeded to make the best of 
his way; but was stopped by a gentleman and his servants, 
who were travelling the opposite way, and were now at a 
little distance from the coach. They soon met; and as one 
of the servants delivered Adams his horse, his master hailed 
him, and Adams, looking up, presently recollected he was 
the justice of the peace before whom he and Fanny had made 
their appearance. The parson presently saluted him very 
kindly; and the justice informed him that he had found the 
fellow who attempted to swear against him and the young 
woman the very next day, and had committed him to Salis¬ 
bury gaol, where he was charged with many robberies. 

Many compliments having passed between the parson and 
the justice, the latter proceeded on his journey; and the 
former, having with some disdain refused Joseph’s offer of 
changing horses, and declared he was as able a horseman as 
any in the kingdom, remounted his beast; and now the com¬ 
pany again proceeded, and happily arrived at their journey’s 
end, Mr Adams, by good luck, rather than by good riding, 
escaping a good fall. 

The company, arriving at Mr Booby’s house, were all re¬ 
ceived by him in the most courteous and entertained in the 
most splendid manner, after the custom of the old English 
hospitality, which is still preserved in some very few families 
in the remote parts of England. They all passed that day 
with the utmost satisfaction; it being perhaps impossible to 
find any set of people more solidly and sincerely happy. Jo¬ 
seph and Fanny found means to be alone upwards of two 
hours, which were the shortest but the sweetest imaginable, 

3 1 7 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


In the morning Mr Wilson proposed to his son to make a 
visit with him to his mother; which, notwithstanding his 
dutiful inclinations, and a longing desire he had to see her, 
a little concerned him, as he must be obliged to leave his 
Fanny; but the goodness of Mr Booby relieved him; for he 
proposed to send his own coach and six for Mrs Wilson, 
whom Pamela so very earnestly invited, that Mr Wilson at 
length agreed with the entreaties of Mr Booby and Joseph, 
and suffered the coach to go empty for his wife. 

On Saturday night the coach returned with Mrs Wilson, 
who added one more to this happy assembly. The reader 
may imagine much better and quicker too than I can describe 
the many embraces and tears of joy which succeeded her 
arrival. It is sufficient to say she was easily prevailed 
with to follow her husband’s example in consenting to the 
match. 

On Sunday Mr Adams performed the service at the squire’s 
parish church, the curate of which very kindly exchanged 
duty, and rode twenty miles to the Lady Booby’s parish so to 
do; being particularly charged not to omit publishing the 
banns, being the third and last time. 

At length the happy day arrived which was to put Joseph 
in the possession of all his wishes. He arose, and drest 
himself in a neat but plain suit of Mr Booby’s, which exactly 
fitted him; for he refused all finery; as did Fanny likewise, 
who could be prevailed on by Pamela to attire herself in no¬ 
thing richer than a white dimity nightgown. Her shift in¬ 
deed, which Pamela presented her, was of the finest kind, and 
had an edging of lace round the bosom. She likewise 
equipped her with a pair of fine white thread stockings, which 
were all she would accept; for she wore one of her own short 
round-eared caps, and over it a little straw hat, lined with 
cherry-coloured silk, and tied with a cherry-coloured ribbon. 
In this dress she came forth from her chamber, blushing and 
breathing sweets; and was by Joseph, whose eyes sparkled 
fire, led to church, the whole family attending, where Mr 
Adams performed the ceremony; at which nothing was so 
remarkable as the extraordinary and unaffected modesty of 
Fanny, unless the true Christian piety of Adams, who publicly 
rebuked Mr Booby and Pamela for laughing in so sacred a 

3 ^ 


JOSEPH ANDREWS 


place, and so solemn an occasion. Our parson would have 
done no less to the highest prince on earth; for, though he 
paid all submission and deference to his superiors in other 
matters, where the least spice of religion intervened he im¬ 
mediately lost all respect of persons. It was his maxim, 
that he was a servant of the Highest, and could not, without 
departing from his duty, give up the least article of his honour 
or of his cause to the greatest earthly potentate. Indeed, he 
always asserted that Mr Adams at church with his surplice 
on, and Mr Adams without that ornament in any other place, 
were two very different persons. 

When the church rites were over Joseph led his blooming 
bride back to Mr Booby’s (for the distance was so very little 
they did not think proper to use a coach) ; the whole com¬ 
pany attended them likewise on foot; and now a most mag¬ 
nificent entertainment was provided, at which parson Adams 
demonstrated an appetite surprizing as well as surpassing 
every one present. Indeed the only persons who betrayed 
any deficiency on this occasion were those on whose account 
the feast was provided. They pampered their imaginations 
with the much more exquisite repast which the approach of 
night promised them; the thoughts of which filled both their 
minds, though with different sensations; the one all desire, 
while the other had her wishes tempered with fears. 

At length, after a day passed with the utmost merriment, 
corrected by the strictest decency, in which, however, parson 
Adams being well filled with ale and pudding, had given a 
loose to more facetiousness than was usual to him, the happy, 
the blest moment arrived when Fanny retired with her mother, 
her mother-in-law, and her sister. 

She was soon undrest; for she had no jewels to deposit in 
their caskets, nor fine laces to fold with the nicest exactness. 
Undressing to her was properly discovering, not putting off, 
ornaments; for, as all her charms were the gifts of nature, 
she could divest herself of none. How, reader, shall I give 
thee an adequate idea of this lovely young creature? the 
bloom of roses and lilies might a little illustrate her com¬ 
plexion, or their smell her sweetness; but to comprehend her 
entirely, conceive youth, health, bloom, neatness, and inno¬ 
cence, in her bridal bed; conceive all these in their utmost 

3 1 9 


e. 


THE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ANDREWS 

AJf 

perfection, and you may place the charming Fanny’s picture 
before your eyes. 

Joseph no sooner heard she was in bed than he fled with 
the utmost eagerness to her. A minute carried him into her 
arms, where we shall leave this happy couple to enjoy the 
private rewards of their constancy; rewards so great and 
sweet, that I apprehend Joseph neither envied the noblest 
duke, nor Fanny the finest duchess, that night. 

The third day Mr Wilson and his wife, with their son and 
daughter, returned home; where they now live together in 
a state of bliss scarce ever equalled. Mr Booby hath, with 
unprecedented generosity, given Fanny a fortune of two thou¬ 
sand pounds, which Joseph hath laid out in a little estate in 
the same parish with his father, which he now occupies (his 
father having stocked it for him) ; and Fanny presides with 
most excellent management in his dairy; where, however, 
she is not at present very able to bustle much, being, as Mr 
Wilson informs me in his last letter, extremely big with her 
first child. 

Mr Booby hath presented Mr Adams with a living of One 
hundred and thirty pounds a-year. He at first refused it, 
resolving not to quit his parishioners, with whom he had 
lived so long; but, on recollecting he might keep a curate at 
this living, he hath been lately inducted into it. 

The pedlar, besides several handsome presents, both from 
Mr Wilson and Mr Booby, is, by the latter’s interest, made 
an exciseman; a trust which he discharges with such justice, 
that he is greatly beloved in his neighbourhood. 

As for the Lady Booby, she returned to London in a few 
days, where a young captain of dragoons, together with eter¬ 
nal parties at cards, soon obliterated the memory of Joseph. 

Joseph remains blest with his Fanny, whom he doats on 
with the utmost tenderness, which is all returned on her 
side. The happiness of this couple is a perpetual fountain 
of pleasure to their fond parents; and, what is particularly 
remarkable, he declares he will imitate them in their retire¬ 
ment, nor will be prevailed on by any booksellers, or their 
authors, to make his appearance in high life. 






















































t 

































































































































4 


r 


LI BRARY OF CONGRESS 


□ □□2 212D71E? 


J 


V,» #?‘"f Wjf- 




t • 1 * Vk' *'' ' >’* i ‘ 1 . ' *! * * | . , , . . • 








1 il •' jl ► ii . • \ A | •' | ' %• ■ 


i 4 ul * i ■ • i 'ii- ' w-.'i • • \ • ' * ')}' * j f 







>rtb' 

V'/TT** 

.‘?w- 

';w. 

;-f*\ . 
t'- , 












































































